


Wildfire

by The Jingo (The_King_in_White)



Series: Beneath A Bleeding Star [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragons, Essos, F/M, House Targaryen, Incest, Joffrey is not a shit, Jon Snow is not a Targaryen, M/M, No Lyanna, War, Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_King_in_White/pseuds/The%20Jingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nigh two decades after Rhaegar Targaryen became a kinslayer, all seems well. But there is blood and fire on the horizon, and beyond the Wall fell things awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and I make no profit writing any fanfiction of it. Further, I'd like it to be clear that in the case of any similarity between anything I write and the future work of any author writing the original work, that I hold no rights to any fanfiction. I make no claim to monetary compensation, and never will. For any intent and purpose, I cede any monetary rights to any fanfiction work to their respective authors.

**The Sword of the Morning  
**

The Iron Throne loomed, dark and warped remnants of melted blades twisting up behind him and between his fingers as he sunk down into it. Silver hair marks a bright streak against the finely pressed midnight black leather that clothed his form, punctuated by the blazing indigo eyes that take in even the smallest detail among the courtiers of His hall. _'The King is a ghost.'_ some of them chuckled into their cups in only the most private of parties, pushing away the intimidation the royal wears like a cloak.

Rhaegar Kinslayer was no ghost.

Fixing his eyes on the great oak doors that closed over the entrance to the Red Keep's hall, Rhaegar drew a slow deep breath through his nostrils. Giving the most incremental nod possible, the King gave the signal to open the doors to the daily lines of petitioners awaiting an audience with their sovereign.

The latest Targaryen King practiced a wildly different method of ruling compared to his father and predecessor. The court of Mad King Aerys had been a place of petty amusements stifled with fear in the latter days of the capricious sovereign. Rhaegar remembered well his predecessor, and the way Aerys had died choking on the blade of his elder son.

Nobles too young to know the terror filled days that filled the years prior to and during Rhaegar's Rebellion complained in quiet corners, where they believed their words would not reach The Crown, about the solemn and humourless atmosphere of the court. The Kinslayer heard well the complaints of his subjects, but was unable to force a smile onto his face in the hall housing the Iron Throne.

The chamber was filled with the screams of the dying and the stench of burning flesh in Rhaegar's mind. The King still suffered from nightmares years later about the burnt and black corpse of Brandon Stark – just one result of that macabre display of murder. Torture, civil war, and kinslaying all spawned by an offhand inebriated joke about Tywin Lannister and Aerys Targaryen in a King's Landing tavern by the deceased previous Stark Lord's older son.

The smallest events had the largest consequences it seemed.

White leather gloves creaked as Barristan Selmy visibly tightened a wrinkled but still strong hand around the hilt of his blade. Standing alert at the foot of the short stairs that led up to the throne upon which his liege sat, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard watched the first petitioner stop at a respectable distance from the King.

The old knight had no suspicion that the peasant woman would or could do any more harm than the other untold thousands that had presented their dilemmas to the King during his reign. But the lessons the White Bull had taught a young knight in the time of Jaehaerys the Second would never be abandoned by the now aged man. A teaching of complete wariness and attention that had only been hammered bone deep by a life of civil war.

From King to King, Barristan would give his utmost to his duty. The wise but short lived Jaehaerys had named him to the Whitecloaks, and been given in return everlasting loyalty in the living world. Aerys had inherited the knight, and enjoyed unbroken service during his life despite all the cruelty and malice of the Mad King. Rhaegar had taken the old knight from the opposite end of a battlefield, coming to the wounded Selmy in the tents of the wounded afterwards with pardon, and taken one of the last of his father's Kingsguard into service then and then.

For that, Rhaegar would have Barristan's loyalty in both the living world and the next.

A short distance away, Ser Arthur Dayne took in the the sight of the orderly court with a jaundiced and experienced eye.

Besides the Lord Commander, only the Sword of the Morning remained on duty from the days of Aerys' Kingsguard. And it was well that Barristan the Bold had lost no respect for his Shield Brother when the younger knight had chosen to take up Dawn in service of Rhaegar, rather than Aery's on the very first day the Crown Prince had chosen to stand against the King.

The same could not be said of Jaime Lannister. The laughing blonde had never enjoyed the positive regard of Barristan, even if Arthur was fond of the only knight to ever depart the Kingsguard. If Jaime had continued to serve Rhaegar, the potential for personal conflict between the young man and Lord Commander would have been large.

It was a moot point however, after Rhaegar had released Jaime from his vows and restored to Lord Tywin the old lion's favoured heir. The agreement had bought Rhaegar both Lannister armies during the Rebellion, and enough of the cool lord's regard that naming Jon Arryn as Hand of the King had not been cause of conflict between the new King and his Warden of the West. The consolation prize appointment to office as Master of Coin most likely helped, Arthur thought ruefully.

Not all had passed out of the civil war so unscathed. The Wardenship of the South had passed out of Tyrell hands and into that of their historical rivals, the Martells. The frequent absence of the Lord of Highgarden and families of the Reach from court was conspicuous when the other noble families of the Southlands mingled freely in the court of the King. Only the Starks and distant Northern houses beyond the Neck rivaled the quiet isolation the Tyrells had chosen.

The political distance between King's Landing and Highgarden was a frequent concern of the King's. Friction between the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms and everyone else was only a lightning rod for potential future conflict, and after one bloody war Rhaegar had no desire to start another.

Arthur couldn't blame him.

As skilled a warrior as he was, not even Arthur could cut starvation with a blade. If another civil war raged, and if Highgarden went over to the rebels, hunger would stalk every homestead between Dorne and the Neck.

It couldn't be allowed to happen.

* * *

**Theon  
**

Rope creaked under strain. Pulling taut against the weight of its catch, the hemp net lurched from the black depths of the Sunset Sea. Grasping the seawater soaked hemp, Theon threw his back into the effort and with a final heave, the crew of the _White Wind_ pulled the day's final load of cod on board.

Straightening with a sigh, Theon wiped the sweat from his forehead and gave a nod to the captain of the longship. The ship itself sat lower in the water than it normally would have beneath the weight of the daily catch, and if they were to make it to Lordsport before the sun was gone, they would have to go now.

Theon ignored the hustle and shouts of the fishermen about him as he meandered to aft, dropping down in the stern most rowers' position and taking up an oar. The tired ache in the Greyjoy's muscles was a welcome feeling born from a hard day's worth of useful work. Unlike Rodrik or Maron, Theon was no stranger to some measure of honest labor.

_'There is a great difference between fear and respect, Theon. The people of the Seven Kingdoms have long feared the Ironborn, but they've never respected them.'_

Quellon was alternatively adored and hated among the Ironborn, even if the old Lord was still considered the wisest Greyjoy that ever lived among the Greenlanders. As a boy, Theon had been woken many times by the furious cursing of his father and uncles on drunken nights. Balon's third son was more than familiar with the many criticisms the Lord of the Iron Islands had laid at his feet. Spineless. Pandering. Soft. Naive.

_'Do not fear small minded men Theon. They are easily moved to rage and violence by things they have no capability or desire to understand. Simply because Ways are Old does not make them better. Do not shirk change if it may be good.'_

(Sometimes Theon wondered that if going against a thousand years of tradition was weak, what was strength?)

The oak beneath his palms began to truly dig into the calluses of his hands as Theon pulled. _White Wind_ sliced through the quiet sea like a blade, making good time east as the crew made homeward from the deep depths to the West of the Iron Islands. No man of the Seven Kingdoms knew what lay beyond the Sunset Sea, and the Greenlanders were notorious for their fear. Few ships ever came from those lands any further than the Iron Islands. Only the Ironborn were fearless on the sea, and only they still sailed into the far West with any regularity.

It was all the better for them, since none of the greenland fishermen were brave enough to look for the rich fishing grounds West of Great Wyk. Smiling appropriately when one of the crewmen made a ribald joke, Theon plunged into the field of crass humour with a practiced tongue. It took little to no thought for the Greyjoy, who had been raised from the crib to lead a crude but hearty people.

Being the grandson of the Lord Reaver came with a certain degree of fear and awe itself from the common men that fished the Sunset Sea. Most Ironborn knew in an distant way that their work went to feed and clothe the Lords of Wyk. Yet save for old Quellon, it was rare that the rulers with power of life and death over them would mingle freely with them - the Lords typically only bothered with those men rich enough to own their own ship. Until Theon.

_'He who wishes to be obeyed must learn to command. Until you look a man in the eyes and hear his voice, you can never truly know his heart. To tame a heart, you must understand it. Otherwise you may find yourself deserted by those wild hearts you never bothered to recognize when the blades close in.'_

It has taken a week of sweating like a pig among them before the commoners he worked with had stopped looking at Theon like some strange creature descended out of a fairytale. Ship-by-ship Theon moved, working with one crew for a few weeks before moving on to the next. Word spread among the port, passed like fire from tongue to wagging tongue until the news had spread even to the hall of Castle Pyke.

Rodrik had merely shaken his head and buried his face deeper in his sweet and red greenlander wine. Maron still laughed from time to time about it, making japes to all who would listen about Theon being a Greenlander changeling. Balon flew into a seething rage at the choice of his son to work anything but the Old Way of raiding. Asha had only pinned him with half-lidded dark eyes, a curious expression that told him he was doing something she had not expected.

(But then, he and Asha themselves did many things unexpected since then. The thought of which had his cock twitching beneath his breeches, and wondering about the quickest way to get into his sister's cunt without being caught by one of their siblings, or parents, or Drowned God forbid _Aeron_. Though Theon supposed that incestuous ungodly heathens that the passion Asha had for him and he had for her precluded him from asking anything of the God Beneath The Sea.)

Quellon had contorted his stern craggy face into a smile. That Theon was the old Greyjoy's favoured grandchild was no great secret, though few understood how such a thing had come about. It was not as though Theon would confess to having reduced to hiding from his brothers' beatings in Quellon's study, and Quellon himself had never told anyone of the day he'd discovered a young boy crying beneath his desk. They only knew that one day the two had been nearly strangers, and the next practically confidants.

 _White Wind_ slid into Lordsport with the last rays of the sun, silently gliding into dock next to dozens of other longships that had retooled for fishing. Using the Iron Fleet to greatly increase the capability of the Ironborn to take in fish during peacetime had sent Balon into a cursing rage and Victarion into a stony silence.

Many had thought the Iron Fleet belonged to the Old Way. Reaving longships that had once enriched those men lucky enough to own a ship in the fleet or know someone they could serve with. Salt wives and riches had abounded among the Lords who were the only ones that could afford ships of their own to begin with - wood to build was expensive and rare on the Iron Islands.

Until Quellon. A strange unconventional Lord that spoke rarely and observed everything with a quietly measuring gaze. It was the Greyjoy's desire to see his people be more than beasts clinging to old glories on rocks in the sea that had spurred him to reform the society of the Ironborn one painful step at a time.

Thralls torn from their owners and freed to either settle on the Islands as freedmen or to be returned to the greenlands they were stolen from. The wealth of those that had made gold off the backs of slaves and cheap labor dried up with the freedom. The old religious binding of Ironborn and salt wife ended by the threat of the blade, with hundreds of Greenlander women released from glorified sexual slavery. The economic dominance of the old families broken by the use of every ship commanded by the Lord Reaver in fishing and transportation.

Wealth found its way into the pockets of those Lords that had seen the winds of change and into those of common people. No longer replaced by thralls in the mines, and given the opportunity for lucrative employment on the seas, the impoverished people of the Iron Islands couldn't help but whisper of Quellon's golden touch.

Theon just hoped that when the old man finally died, that his father wouldn't burn it all down out of spite and tradition.

* * *

**Robb**

"Great shot, Joff!"

Smirking over his shoulder, Joffrey Baratheon slid from the back of his horse and stalked towards the stag still squealing weakly as the arrow in its breast did its work. Blue eyes narrowed in consideration as Joffrey settled a hand over his dagger before sighing with good-natured exasperation.

Metal licked out, a bright flash beneath the light that split the stag's throat and ended the beast's life in short seconds. "No reason to leave it to suffer." The Baratheon heir shrugged, wiping the blade on the stag's pelt and turning about.

"True enough." Robb Stark laughed, clapping the dark-haired boy's shoulder before stepping around him to stare down at the dead stag. Whistling in admiration at its size, the redhead nudged a proud antler with his boot before calling Jon over. Between the three of them, they managed to lug Joffrey's kill across the rump of Joff's horse and lashed it down securely.

Pulling himself back up onto Bitefirst's back, Joffrey patted the well named and generally ill tempered stallion's neck before taking the reins. "Well lads," he began jovially, turning the horse around and starting off in the general direction of Winterfell. "Looks like it's my kill again."

Jon Snow merely scoffed loudly, nudging his own mare into following. "Well you know how it is, my Lord. Any other outcome simply wouldn't be showing off our famous hospitality."

Scanning the trees for the beaten path, Joffrey grinned. "If by hospitality you mean 'cold enough to freeze a man's cock and whores just as chilly to match', then I agree."

Robb coughed into a fist at that, hiding a smile. Joffrey's promiscuity was just as legendary – at least in their small corner of the world – as that of his father Robert's. Tall and comely, with sky blue eyes and soot black hair, Joffrey was the spitting image of the older Baratheon. Though admittedly it had been years since Robb had last met the Lord of Storm's End, and the memories of that meeting were foggy.

Hooves clapped beneath their horses as the three teenagers followed the forest past at a leisurely pace. The wind was crisp with a faint bite of cold, which was common enough in Northern summer. The half-melted banks of snow scattered about the landscape was a shock to any unprepared southron lord.

"So I guess they'll be carting you back off to Storm's End by the end of the month? Good riddance I say." Robb's voice was jovial enough, but both Jon and Joffrey were close enough to the Stark to detect the discontent floating beneath the airy tones.

Tossing his dark locks in exasperation, Joffrey turned an amused blue glare back at Robb. "Missing me already? Don't be such a woman. I'll write to you, never fear dearest." The Baratheon made kissing noises that had Robb grimacing in disgust and Jon breaking out in low chuckles.

"I'm the woman? I resent that coming from a long-haired, Southron puff. I heard you the first night you came here, you do realize? 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!'"

The teasing continued back and forth for a long while, easing the tension brought up at the thought of their impending separation. The boys had been fast friends, as their fathers before them, but it appeared those times were coming to an end.

"Hold up." Jon grunted suddenly, pulling his horse to a whickering stop. The bastard ignored the annoyed glares the two lordlings sent him as his dark eyes scanned the tree line. There had been something, a niggling feeling...

Dismounting in a smooth swing, Jon set a hand over the hilt of his sword and pushed through the brambles crowding the edges of the road. Branches crumpled behind him as Robb and Joffrey pushed on through after him, trying to grab his attention in low whispers.

The Stark heir had a hand over his own blade hilt, where Joffrey gripped the war hammer his father had sent him on his last name day between two hands. Thoughts of highway robbers or raiders percolated in the minds of the young men, driving energy through their bones with all the youthful naivety about the glory of battle.

Raiders could not be further from the truth.

"Stranger's balls!" the Baratheon bellowed when they came across the corpse of a great hulking beast. Frost had just begun to settle into the fur of the huge wolf where it laid sprawled over the forest floor, fur matted with blood. A faint snuffling drew Joffrey's gaze to the dead direwolf's teats, where lo and behold six scrawny little pups were desperately trying to suckle.

Swearing again, the black-haired lad ignored the stirring of pity to scan his gaze over the corpse again. "Died of the birth and the frost, do you think?"

Robb hummed his agreement, a strange look in his blue Tully eyes as he hunkered down next to the squalling pups and scooped one up into his arms. Gloved fingers scratched behind the little grey pup's ears, eliciting a small croon of pleasure.

Drinking in the queer look on Robb's face, Joffrey stared at the shivering pup in his friend's arms before realization dawned on him. "Oh no, I know that look." He muttered, voice rising. "Tell me that you're not going to play momma to a horde of great bloodthirsty beasts?"

"Why shouldn't I?" the Stark replied challengingly, pulling another pup up into his arms. "I think it's a sign. The direwolf is our sigil. Six pups for six Stark children."

"And the stag is mine, but you don't see me prancing about the forest riding one do you?" Pleading blue eyes turned to stare at Robb's brother. "Come on Jon, talk some sense into him!"

"Five Stark children." Jon Snow disagreed, peering down at the pup in his arms, which was the only albino of the litter. "There are only five trueborn Stark children. This one is mine."

* * *

**Aegon**

Panting and spent with effort, Aegon rolled off his sister to stare at the ceiling. Rhaenys was insatiable when she was in the mood, and the hours of lovemaking had left the siblings in a tangled sweaty mess.

Wincing at the first hints of daylight through the curtain, the Prince of Dragonstone made his way to his feet and stared down at his amused sibling. The smirk on Rhaenys' lips cut across on her pretty face, dusky skin glistening with sweat and dark hair tangled from their passion. The violet Targaryen eyes they both shared being the only feature she had inherited from their father.

"Well I'm sure you have many duties to attend to, _my liege_." Rhaenys pointed out with an air of mockery. "There's no need to wait on my little old self." The princess buried her face back into her pillow, fully intending to take advantage of her distinct lack of daily duties in administering Dragonstone to catch up on sleep missed.

Laughing at the annoyed growl she gave when he delivered a stinging smack to her arse, Aegon grabbed his pile of rumpled clothes from the foot of the bed and strode from her rooms and across the hall to his own. The servants had already set out a steaming tub of bathwater for him to cleanse himself with for the day, and the Prince wasted no time stepping in.

That he'd taken to fucking his sister almost every night was an open secret among the men and women that kept the castle for him. If not for their standing betrothal and the typical custom of Targaryen incest, Aegon suspected their trysting would garner more than amused titters and the exasperated letters from his mother telling them to be more discreet.

 _How_ his mother knew about who he was seeing in the night concerned Aegon more than the fact that she actually knew whose fields he'd been plowing and that she _tolerated_ their incest rather than truly supported it. Obviously having spies in his household was pretty standard practice, though at some point she needed to learn to let go. They were practically grown by now.

They would have already been married if the Queen hadn't been so insistent that Daenerys needed to be older than just first flowered before Aegon married his sister and aunt. Not that he was complaining all that badly about taking two beautiful women to bed for the rest of his days, or until one of his wives-to-be died, but it was bound to cause problems.

His father had been most insistent however. _The Dragon must have three heads_.

Damn prophecies.

Heaving himself from the bath, Aegon scrubbed the moisture from his body with economical motions before pulling on a dark black cotton doublet, embroidered with the bloody red three headed sigil of his house. Dragonstone was a damp rock that constantly smelled of brine, with a biting chill that was only chased away by carefully tended fires. Or the warmth of another's flesh.

Dragging a hand through silver locks, Aegon forced his mussed strands into something somewhat presentable. The faster he could make it though his duties, the faster he could curl up in a warm bed with his sister.

First, an inspection of the guard.

* * *

**Cersei**

"There darling. Now doesn't that look splendid?" Putting the finishing touches on the tangled and complex style of her daughter's hair, Cersei beamed into the mirror. Myrcella drunk in the sight of midnight twists and fine braids before squinting her blue orbs into an identical pleased expression.

"Thank you mother." The girl offered before squirming free of the blonde woman's clutches and pattering out to the training salle to watch Robert lead his younger son though the proper motions of archery. Unlike her Joff, sweet Tommen would never have the temperament to truly take to all things martial. An oddity considering who his father was, but not even Robert could always make warlike sons. Perhaps an education at the Citadel would be in order?

Tapping a well-manicured fingernail over painted crimson lips, the Lannister women decided to bury the thought for some other time. It was far too early yet to be sending another son into the world, especially when her other boy would finally be coming home in a few months. Robert had insisted on fostering his heir with Eddard Stark at Winterfell, and despite Cersei's efforts had put his foot down on the matter.

Just as well, she supposed. She couldn't have everything go her way, even if she wanted it to. Robert was accommodating enough for a husband as it was, with his way of leaving the true power in Storm's End to her while he did little but hunt, fight, and fuck. Not that she objected the last, as the pleasant ache between her legs reminded her of the night before. If her simple husband truly wanted something, it was fair enough for him to have it.

Rising to her feet in a graceful motion, the Lady of Storm's End tossed her wavy golden mane back and went in search of the Maester. Cressan was pleasant enough to deal with, and said little when she availed herself of his herbs to make moon tea. Pylos still gave her scandalized looks, and Cersei amused herself by imagining how long it would take the naive young Maester to approach Robert to talk about her "improper" behavior.

She gave it another week before Pylos came stuttering to the Lord of Storm's End, only to find out that her habit of drinking the foul concoction had been a mutual agreement. As much as she and her husband loved their children, neither had a desire to have any more. The danger of more children did little to dampen their ardour for one another however, and the moon tea had quickly become a near daily necessity.

A faint rush of wind was the only warning she had before Cersei was swung up in a dizzying twirl. The air was filled with the smell of leather and sweat and _man_ , and the blonde felt the peaking of her nipples beneath the red silk of her gown before Robert even set her down on her feet.

"Cersei." The Baratheon rumbled, standing tall over her with just the faintest dusting of silver at the temples. Robert's blue eyes were just as striking and heady as they had been on their wedding night, and the first beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of detracted from her husband's features not at all. The thick muscles of Robert's frame pressed through the dark leather jerkin against her, and the look that he gave Cersei was wanton and full of need. "Myrcella is off with the Septa, and Renly is showing Tommen around the salle."

The unspoken implications were obvious to the Lannister woman, and Cersei took a moment to consider. Robert was never offended when the blonde turned him away, as the lusty man would easily find his way to the whore house. Not that it truly bothered Cersei that Robert had such an appetite for the female flesh, but she felt a little stung at the notion that _he_ would have more passion than _her_. The aroused warmth in her nethers quickly made the decision for her, and Cersei curled her red lips into a lusting smile.

The moon tea could wait.

* * *

**Viserys**

Swallowing down a sweet mouthful of Arbor gold, the Prince of Duskendale dragged a lilac gaze over the final draft of the blueprints for the realm's next flagship. A war galley of four hundreds oars would be a considerable undertaking, but Rhaegar trusted him as his Master of Ships, and Viserys refused to let his brother down.

The Seven Kingdoms had bled considerably fifteen years past, splitting in twain, and then fracturing even further. When Aerys had burnt Brandon Stark alive and caused the grieving Lord Rickard to call his banners, Viserys had been but a boy. He still had nightmares about Brandon's smoldering corpse and the skeletal figure of his father gloating about punishing petty insults.

Though the horror of that night probably failed to compare to the night Aerys decided to murder Rhaegar and his family as suspected traitors. Viserys thanked the Seven that he'd been shipped off with his pregnant mother to Dragonstone for safekeeping by that point. The Dowager Queen had always been gentle, and the remainder of the war passed without ever having to see his mad father again.

 _Vermithor's Fury_. Scribbling the name onto the corner of the parchment, Viserys rolled it up and passed it to the engineer waiting nervously in front of his desk. The newest flagship of the Royal Fleet. Or it would be, until Rhaegar commissioned something even bigger and more impressive.

His brother ruled the kingdom with a wise and just hand, many agreed, and the realm flourished despite initial concerns about being governed by a kinslayer. Rhaegar had taken the Iron Throne only to find an empty treasury and a debt of a million Gold Dragons to the Iron Bank. Aerys had bankrupted the realm purchasing sellswords after his son turned against him. Fifteen years later found the treasury overflowing with gold, the laws and roads well maintained, and coin to spare investing in larger military might.

Viserys heard the whispers among the High Lords, and the boldest of them even asked to his face if his brother had plans to war beyond The Wall or with Essos. Or perhaps if he was finally going to give ear to Jalabhar Xho and lend him an army to conquer Red Flower Vale down in the Summer Isles.

Not that Viserys was at all the opposed to any of those possible ventures. Rhaegar was wise and cunning, and if the King led them to war to claim the Stepstones or the Summer Isles or a slice of Essos, Viserys had full confidence his brother would find victory for the Seven Kingdoms. But the enemies Rhaegar prepared for had eyes like blue stars and stunk of everlasting winter. Or so the tale said.

For once, Viserys dearly hoped Rhaegar would be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Cersei and Robert: All their children are trueborn, and they have a great relationship. What's wrong with me? I'm of the opinion that those two would actually be a good match, but it was so poisoned by circumstances and Robert being unwilling to actually try. He's a good looking, sexy guy with lots of charisma. A good "prince" for her. His flaws play into her desires. He has no desire to rule, and she's perfectly happy to. Remember Cersei even in canon came to the marriage bed wet and willing. They both have large sexual appetites, and that can lead to a lot of passion with each other. They both love their children, and since Robert isn't being a fat slovenly drunkard weeping about Lyanna forever, the man actually invests in their children and their relationship. Which means happy marriage, happy kids, and Joffrey is not a raging monster.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and I make no profit writing any fanfiction of it. Further, I'd like it to be clear that in the case of any similarity between anything I write and the future work of any author writing the original work, that I hold no rights to any fanfiction. I make no claim to monetary compensation, and never will. For any intent and purpose, I cede any monetary rights to any fanfiction work to their respective authors.

**Elia**

Thin fingers marked with sword calluses idly caressed the slight paunch of her stomach leftover from childbirth. Elia smiled faintly and snuggled back into the naked warmth of her husband, losing herself in the drowsy early morning warmth. They would be called soon enough to their duties. He to his Council, and she to her Solar and careful management of the ladies of the court. But for the moment, the Martell was happy enough simply to _be_.

Rhaegar had not always been so affectionate. The early days of their marriage had a polite civility, where Rhaegar had been kind enough but not truly caring, and Elia herself struggled to re-adjust herself to the distance of her family, her people, and her homeland given up for a pale prince who cared not at all for her sake. Carrying Rhaenys and Aegon had come out of duty more than any affection, and when the Maesters told her husband she would be unable to carry more children, there had been much talk of Rhaegar setting her aside for another.

But then came the war, and knives in the night before they'd smuggled out of the castle in the raining night and floating to freedom on a river barge. That night had been the first time her husband had truly begun to see her as _Elia_ the woman, rather than as a Martell womb to carry out his prophecy, or another one of his duties. Shivering in the chill while trying to keep her children quiet, surrounded by defected Kingsguard in disguise had been the first night Rhaegar had looked at her with his purple eyes rather than through her.

Rhaegar had never stopped looking at her after that. And through fire and blood and a war of desperation, where he'd returned more often than not with crimson seeping wounds that she sewed up with shaking fingers. At some point between the steel and smoke – or perhaps because of it – Rhaegar had come to love her, and Elia had come to love him in return, and cursed her fragile health the most bitterly in all her life for preventing them from bringing forth life from her womb with that newfound affection.

The warmth behind her shifted with a sigh as Rhaegar left their bed, and with a sigh of her own, Elia glared at the early morning sunlight.

Water swished faintly as Rhaegar dipped a fluffy white hand towel in the slightly steaming water set out on their washstand. The smell of lavender filled his nostrils as he scrubbed himself down, and the King found himself idly hoping it hadn't been Oberyn standing guard outside to quietly deliver the warmed water for his and Elia's morning ablutions. Rhaegar and Oberyn respected one another well enough, but that hardly meant Rhaegar wished the Red Viper to catch sight of him and Elia tangled naked and sleeping together. Few men cared for the notion that their sisters might have sexual predilections.

"Elia." Rhaegar murmured as he switched the bowl he'd used for himself with the second and unused basin. Smirking slightly at his wife's displeased groan, the King shuffled aside to permit her access and pulled a brush through his long silver strands. The Targaryen King generally disdained the use of servants for the aid of washing and dressing, and outside of formal events with complex outfits, Rhaegar preferred to cloth himself.

Not, he thought as he pulled on a black leather jerkin, that Rhaegar resented Elia for having her lady maids assist her with nearly everything they could. Elia's health was fragile at times, but even if it weren't, there were fewer women safe in the Kingdom than his wife when she was with the Sand Snakes in her chambers and Oberyn at her door.

The King was certain that there was resentment in his court for the Dornish that were so obviously favoured by his family. Siding with Rhaegar in the war might have won Doran the right to be considered Warden of the South with little contesting. But with another Martell wearing the white cloak despite having a paramour and fathering eight bastards before joining the Kingsguard, those eight Martell bastards as the Queen's personal maids, and that Martell paramour as the Martell queen's lady-in-waiting, Rhaegar and his wife were at a political disadvantage.

Despite how much trouble it may cause however, Rhaegar struggled to force himself to care. If there was one thing that he'd learned playing the game of thrones as a Prince and a King, it was that true loyalty was difficult to find. For all their overly Dornish ways, Oberyn's family was _loyal_ to Elia, and as Warden of the South, few men would be as astute and cunning a choice as Doran.

Still, sacrifices must needs be made. The distance of the Tyrells had slipped his mind for many years as pandering to one Great House came after the work of rebuilding the realm, paying its debts, and shoring up strength for a war in the North he hoped would never come. In his arrogance, Rhaegar had felt secure enough with support of the other eight Great Houses that alienating the ninth had never struck him as such a pressing concern.

As the Starks so often said in their dour way, winter was coming. And if the Reach decided to stand alone when the Others came south of The Wall and ice pressed in at all corners, that political rift may be enough to strangle them all.

Unity – and thus _survival_ would be bought – even if blood and war ended up being the price.

* * *

**The Young Falcon**

"Here boy."

Bloodied steel flashed in the sunslight, accompanied by a mocking smirk as Jaime Lannister shoved his dirtied blade in the hands of his squire to clean.

"I'm not your boy, Lannister." Robert Arryn snarked back, the grin on the teen's face belaying any true offence. The first time Robert Arryn had appeared at Casterly Rock for his fostering, he'd been a nervous child of eight years and barely able to look the man he was squiring for in the eye.

It had taken Jaime all of a week before the blonde grew so frustrated he'd begun to take part in absurd antics simply to make the boy stop acting so meek. Piling too many books in Robert's arms to carry, giving him nothing for supper but five plates of potatoes, frequently excusing himself to 'shit gold'. The mud and bracken hidden under the sheets of the Arryn's bed had been the straw that broke the horse's back. And after the fiery Tully temper had finally lashed out with curses of _'piss-haired bastard!'_ , Jaime had simply ruffled Robert's hair with a laugh.

From that night on, they'd settled into a relationship less of knight and squire, or guardian and ward, but rather one of teasing favoured uncle and long-suffering nephew.

"Then I am not a Lannister. The Lord of the Rock will surely be shocked and horrified to learn of it!"

Robert simply rolled his eyes before beginning to scrub the splatters of blood from Jaime's blade. Cleaning his own blade would come after, and then arranging for the dents in their armour to be repaired by one of the blacksmiths in service to the Rock. But first, the gaudy gold and ruby encrusted sword that belonged to the Lannister heir would have to come first.

As much as he was tempted to 'forget' to clean it as a jest at time, since the Lannisters would have little trouble paying for a reforging as the latest strike in the war of tricks he'd waged with Jaime over the years, Robert abstained. The pranks had become especially bittersweet over the past half-year, and the Arryn was reluctant to taste the nostalgic feeling again.

Not when he and Jaime would be separated by week's end. In a few short days the former Kingsguard had arranged a knighting ceremony for Robert, and then a departing feast before the young man would journey back to the Vale. Ostensibly out of pity so that Robert could finally have a taste of what it was like to be socially equal to the ' _great Jaime Lannister'_ before the blonde inherited the Rock, but the Arryn had heard the barely muffled pride in Jaime's voice.

If the news had brought stinging to the corners of Robert's eyes, and if Jaime himself had looked a touch red around his emerald eyes at the impending separation, neither knight nor knight-to-be would speak of it.

They had announced Robert's imminent departure for home. But if home was where the heart was, why did he feels so conflicted about returning? The initial months after Robert's arrival had been filled with letters and ravens, with words flying fast and thick between the Rock and the Eyrie. As time passed however, the letters had dwindled. Robert and his father wrote to each other only every few months.

Robert and his mother wrote to one another not at all.

In one light, the distance between parent and child was shocking. As a boy, Robert had clung to Lysa Arryn. The Tully woman had been a comforting constant in his life, fussing over him frequently and cooing that her 'Sweetrobin' would never want for anything. As a boy Robert had proclaimed once that no one would ever harm his mother and that he would protect her from everything.

Yet Robert was no child any longer. The distant silences between his parents had grown through the years, and looking back on the memories the young man understood what lived in the unspoken spaces far better than a child had. As a boy, he'd simply assumed such relations between parents were normal. As a man, with the whispers of the court in his ears, Robert brushed the mystery away and finally knew why his parents stared at one another with such cold eyes.

Despite two trueborn sons that resembled their father so strongly, no love could exist and would ever exist between his mother and his father. The seething resentment that he could see clearly now spoke all too well that Elbert Arryn never forgot he'd married a soiled woman still in love with another man for Tully swords. Lysa had never been willing to even try to love her husband when Petyr Baelish was one of the Arryn's bannermen, and the hunger for the man was fanned all the more by his nearness.

If not for Robert's sandy brown hair and deeply Arryn features, with his young brother Brandon only slightly less obviously descended from the Lords of the Vale, the rumours of Littlefinger sowing seeds in Lysa Tully's field would be far louder than the whispers they were.

Robert hissed as he pressed too harshly down on the edges of the blade, pulled out of his increasingly sour thoughts by the sting in his hand and the faint speckle of his own blood smirching the gold as the price of his carelessness. The Arryn swiped the crimson beads off with a corner of the bloodied rag and shoved the Lannister blade in its sheathe before turning to his own much less fine sword.

The Rock had proved to be a finer home than the Vale had ever been. Not in terms of the people or the land. Robert still woke from his dreams at times, craving for the smell of mountains beneath the moon, the taste of clouds in his lungs, and the runes of steadfast Bronze Yohn serving the halls of his fathers.

But in terms of the family he had grown into, Robert had never known better. Lady Lorea had managed to care for him without smothering him. The gazes between the Westerling and her Lannister husband were filled with affection, rather than poison. Jaime was full of pride and demonstrative in a way distant, grave Elbert never had been. Tyrion was his whoremonger older brother, constantly trying to corrupt him. And Joanna was a closer and finer younger sibling than a dark haired boy he barely remembered in the fog of his past as more than a pudge of fat and tears.

 _As High as Honor_ were his family words, and Robert would do his best to adhere to them. The Arryn would return to the Vale, take up a sword and seat in his father's house, and learn how to be the Falcon in the Vale. Duty demanded no less.

Yet it was increasingly feeling like home was left behind.

* * *

**Viserys**

Folding white mail clad hands over well-polished moon-pale plate embossed with a stag of crusted topaz, Renly favoured Ser Barristan with a cheeky grin. The vaguely sour look the Baratheon got in return only widened the black-haired knight's white smirk, but the shuffling in of Rhaegar's Small Council precluded either Kingsguard warrior from making any comment.

Rhaegar, as King, sat at the head of the table beneath a finely stitched tapestry depicting the Aegonfort that had served the first Targaryen King so well in his War of Conquest. Indigo pools watched calm and cool as the other Lords made their way to their seats. Jon Arryn sat directly opposite Rhaegar, to make the subtle statement that he had the right and duty, as the King's Hand, to oppose even the King when poor consul was suggested.

Sinking down into the seat at his brother's right hand, Viserys mirrored Rhaegar's cool composure and watched with an unnerving Targaryen gaze as Tywin Lannister sat at the King's left, one space down to leave room for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Stannis Baratheon sat at the right of the man who had once fostered his older brother, teeth grinding in frustration at having to sit across from the Master of Whispers and having to endure the ridiculous faces his younger brother was making from his post by the door.

The Grand Maester sat between Viserys and Varys, red-stained teeth smiling with delight at the rich goblets of Arbor red set out to quench their thirst and encourage tongues to flow.

Rhaegar's distant gaze sharpened, pinning first his Hand. "What news?" It did little good to stand on ceremony when none on his small council save Varys needed or desired pretensions, and when they had ruled together for fifteen years. Except Viserys, who had replaced the aging Quellon Greyjoy as Master of Ship two years past, but whom was still his brother and stood little on affectation between them.

Wrinkles deepened as Jon sipped from his goblet of wine, wetting the dry mouth that so often accompanied age and narrowing still clear eyes. "There is little to say, Your Grace." The Lord of the Vale's length grey beard fluttered when he blew a sigh from his nostrils. "Our last work on remaking the Kingsroad to Moat Cailin was completed a fortnight past. Reports are that carts may pass comfortably by one another now, at speed all the way from the Neck to the Dragon's Gate. Prince Viserys ensured similar work on the Rosby Road was finished six months ago. Lord Tywin has always ensured the Goldroad is well-maintained. Just as he has with the Searoad. The Kingsroad south to Storm's End has been kept well by every Targaryen King since Orys Baratheon took seat there."

"The Roseroad deteriorates to little more than a dirt track halfway to Highgarden, Your Grace." Tywin pointed out, gold flecked green orbs stern and unrelenting. "And beyond Moat Cailin the Kingsroad is in Stark hands alone. They keep it well to Castle Black, but carts do not pass one another on it with ease, and the North has little excess gold to widen it."

"Then provide some." Rhaegar commanded, voice melodious and without the arrogance that had so characterized Aerys' during the Mad King's reign. "The highways are vital links of trade, the lifeblood of this kingdom, and required when armies must move at need."

Suspicion at the mention of armies flared quietly in the Lannister Lord's gaze, but the Master of Coin held his tongue, and nodded silently.

Contained and cold anger burned in Stannis' voice when the Baratheon spoke, a year long siege held as grievance years later, buried, but never forgotten or forgiven. "The Tyrells forget their duties to the Kingdom. The Reach has both the men and the gold to keep the Roseroad well, rather than two dried tracks in the mud."

"In spirit perhaps." Varys tittered, smiling behind a perfumed hand. "But they have never promised to give any King a swift highway, or any highway."

Pouring himself another goblet of the Arbor red, Jon muttered lowly "Something needs be done about the Tyrells."

"Indeed, something must be done." Rhaegar agreed in a clipped tone, only to turn to face his brother with a searching look. "I've heard that Lord Tyrell has a daughter. You and she are of an age. Perhaps a marriage would sooth their pride and heal the division in this kingdom. What say you?"

The expression Viserys made back was horrified. Mottled pale with sudden shock and red with sudden embarrassment, the Targaryen Prince of Duskendale smiled with a sickly countenance. "I fear that would not strictly be possible, Your Grace. I have already been spoken for."

Silence hung in the air as the Small Council stared at Viserys with varying degrees of shock. Varys had the most dramatic, with comically and purposefully wide eyes at the thought that such a thing as the marriage of the King's brother had escaped the watch of his little birds. Jon rubbed the wrinkles of his forehead with a longsuffering look at the foolishness of boys. Stannis looked disgruntled, mostly due to Marwyn spitting a spray of wine in a bark of laughter. Tywin's golden grey brows rose incrementally.

It was Rhaegar that scared Viserys, as all he did was smile sweetly with a look promising some painful drudgery in the near future for his _idiot brother_. "The Velayron girl, I presume." The King clarified. "As you've already said your vows, I'm sure you won't mind doing so in a few months for the people. A week after Daenerys' fourteen name day will do _splendidly_. I'm sure even Lord Tyrell will be delighted to attend. I shall leave the ravens to you, brother mine."

* * *

**Robb**

The tang of smoky ale was on his tongue as Joffrey tightened the muscles of his back and twirled Sansa through the air with a ring of laughter and flash of green silk. Setting his betrothed back on her feet, the Baratheon grinned roguishly and swung the redhead back into the spirited northern dance they were stomping out to the tune of windpipes.

Sansa flushed slightly from the combination of alcohol and flirting, but only gave an eye roll and a smirk to Joffrey. Growing up with the black haired heir to Storm's End had done much to disabuse her of the notion that Joffrey was anything near a perfect knight. Her betrothed drank too much, and swore too much, and was known for his appetite of the flesh.

Once upon a time, the Stark girl would have been horrified at the notion of marrying such a man. Her idealized lover as a child had been a golden prince, smooth of cheek and smelling of perfume, who kissed her hand and swept her away to his castle of roses and silks in the warm South, where he would serenade her with songs of love and courtly gestures.

Though Joffrey would one day inherit a castle in the warm South, with wealth abundant for all the silks and roses she could desire, and keep his square jaw smooth shaven, there was little else in him that she would have wanted as a child. Joffrey smelt like the Wolfswood, earthy peat and pines, rather than gentle perfume. The only songs he sung were tavern songs, bawdy and improper. The only kisses he gave were on the mouth, heated and longing, stolen in dark corners with lust darkening his blue eyes.

Seven year old Sansa would have been horrified. Twelve year old Sansa was not. The golden prince was a ghost she'd never met, with no name and an indistinct face. Her black prince was flesh and blood and warmth, with a heart she'd felt shyly galloping beneath the great ribs of his chest. And it made her feel powerful. That a maiden not just flowered could reduce a notorious whoremonger to blushed stuttering and nervous hands when she smiled just _so_.

Tilting her head up at Joffrey, Sansa curved rose petal lips up into an innocent smile, all dazzling warmth, and watched with delight as the black haired teen's cheeks grew red, and the apple of his throat bobbed with dry swallowing. She gave him a wicked grin as Robb cut in to take her hands, leaving Joffrey standing dazed and flushed alone.

"Teasing Joff again, I see." Robb mused, part humor and part annoyance in his voice, tones lowly and baring heard over the noise of the feasting hall. The heir to Winterfell had a boy's amusement at the harmless embrassment of his friend, and a man's instinctive anger at the notion that any man would come near to his innocent younger sister. Even if he was her betrothed.

"What are you talking about?" Sansa replied, blinking big blue eyes up at him with faux innocence. Looking at Robb was like looking into a mirror. The same Tully blue eyes, with the same wavy auburn hair, and the same lean angular features. They both favoured their mother so strongly, with little on the North written into the skin.

A muscle jumped in Robb's jaw as he clenched his teeth, tracking a simmering gaze over at where Joffrey had since taken to dancing a merry uncoordinated jig with Arya. He knew that his displeasure was nonsensical, as Joffrey and Sansa were promised, and he'd known for years they would be married. Joffrey would be departing in a fortnight's time, and now that Sansa had flowered two months past, Sansa would be going with him.

Not that the knowledge would prevent him from giving Joffrey a black eye, as he had once when he caught his friend kissing his sister, if the Baratheon came anywhere near Sansa before they were properly wed.

Sighing, Robb rolled his eyes at his sister before firmly passing her hands to his bastard brother. The flare in Sansa's eyes let him know that she was quite displeased he'd prevented her from swooning back over Joffrey for the evening, as the festivities were dying down. And even more displeased that he'd done it by passing her over to the brother she disdained.

Smiling apologetically at Jon's stoic face, he gave his brother a friendly clap on the shoulder before striding back to the High Table. His mother had long since retired, but his father remained sitting and watching the merrymaking with a grave expression.

Robb threw himself down in the seat next to the Lord of Winterfell, grabbing a flagon of ale and taking a great swig. The redhaired teen could feel the heavy weight of Eddard's eyes on him, and nearly spat his ale out when the man stated in a stern tone "It does little good to drink your sorrows away, Robb. Joffrey would have had to go home eventually, no matter how good of friends you became. Storm's End is not too far for love letters however, and Joffrey will never be more than a raven away."

The juxtaposition between serious tone and the absurd implications of Ned's words made Robb snort, and he knew without looking that his father's grey eyes would be dancing with laughter. "Why does _everyone_ say that? First Jon, then Joff, and now _you_. I don't think anything I've done has given the impression that I spend my days mooning over the arse."

"The world must be small indeed if the observations of the three of us are the words of _everyone_." Eddard observed, pushing aside his half drained flagon of Northern ale. "And I would assume that we observe it because we know that your first kiss went to Joffrey."

Wood thudded as Robb jerked, knee slamming into the underside of the table. "First of all, why does everyone keep bringing that up? Don't you all get tired of the joke? And secondly," the redhead swallowed another mouthful of ale. " _He_ was the one so drunk off his ass that he could barely remember where he was, much less who he was pawing at. I wasn't even awake at the time! Thirdly, I blame Jon. It's entirely Jon's fault."

Ned didn't even bother to conceal the amused tones of his voice as he stood and ruffled his son's red locks beneath weathered fingers. "And how exactly is Jon at fault?"

"Because he was _sober_."

* * *

**Jon**

The fire was banked low, coals seething red as the last titters of drunk women and men passed away into the late night. Jon Snow crooked his fingers into the white fur of his direwolf, scratching the pup curled up into his lap behind the ears in a lazy motion.

As the feasting and dancing had wound down, the buzzing and lightheadness from drink that had floated in Jon's brain receded, leaving the bastard with a clear head. The Hall of Winterfell was nearly empty, the only ones remaining in the nearly silent hall being a few inebriated servants, Jon, and his uncle Benjen, for whose return the feast had been thrown in the first place.

The ranger favoured the content looking ball of fur with an amused glance, scratching Ghost beneath the chin as he washed the flavour of alcohol from his mouth with clear water. "The Giant's Stair is well-named," Benjen stated after a pause, continuing his tale of one of his rangings beyond the Wall. Wind and ice have worn the edges away over time, but you can still see the cut of the stone. The steps are well-measured, evenly spaced, and smoothed. Miles and miles long, reaching up into the Frostfangs. No one knows truly how they came to be, though construction by giants is what most men believe, hence the name."

Raising a skeptical brow, Jon gave his uncle a stern stare "Have giants ever truly existed? Or are they just another story like the ones Old Nan told us as children?"

Barking up at the ceiling with laugher, Benjen shook his head. "Have they _ever_ existed? Jon, they still do. They're not even such an uncommon sight beyond the wall. They are a warlike people, but they speak, and even trade with the free folk and Men of The Watch. There are many things beyond the wall that those south of it would think are merely stories."

"Such as?"

"The giants for one. The great hairy mammoths they raise for milk and meat are another. Folk that still speak in tongues of old. Skinchangers and wildings. Wailing on the coasts of Hardhome. Even snow that never melts in the Land of Always Winter.

"Have you ever been?"

"Ever been to where?"

A shadow passed over Benjen's face, and he turned away from his bastard nephew to stare into the coals of the hearth. "Once." He replied tersely, and would speak no more on it when Jon attempted to probe.

Realizing his uncle obviously did not want to speak on it, Jon changed his line of questions. "I hear the Watch in much changed from how it was. Is there any truth to that, or is it just gossip mongering?"

Benjen smirked cynically, grey eyes flashing back to Jon. "And how was the Wall ever, Jon Snow? What did you think it was, a brotherhood of honor and loyalty, where men give up everything to protect the Seven Kingdoms from White Walkers? Once, perhaps. But the Walkers have not been seen since the Long Night, and the Watch is little more than a living prison for most of the men. Rapers, thieves, and murderers that came to take the black rather than lose their cocks, or their hands, or their heads. "

Glaring with a sour expression, Jon clenched his jaw. "I'm not a little boy, uncle. You don't have to try and warn me away with scary tales about 'bad men'."

The ranger waved at Jon with a nonchalant hand. "You are a boy. A boy of the North aye, but a boy still smelling of summer green. Have you ever lain with a woman? Known love? Had any children? Fathered a few bastards on whores in Winter Town? I doubt it. Don't take the black so lightly Jon. You know little about it."

"I will _never_ father a bastard! Never." Ned Stark's bastard bit out vehemently, fist clenched white and taut on the table. Simmering at the pitying look Benjen favoured him, Jon made to get up.

"Won't you?" the ranger sighed, sipping down the last drops of water from his goblet. "It's practically a duty to the watch now that Rhaegar is king. Ten gold dragons to any whore in Mole's town that bears a bastard for the Watch. The dragon leant heavily on the Old Bear to change the vows for new recruits, and with so much gold and food as a bribe, Mormont swallowed his pride and caved. No black brother may hold lands, or take a wife, but bastards flow aplenty these days."

"Why would the King _do_ that? What happened to thousands of years of tradition and brotherhood? For the Watch to just bow down and accept the urgings of any king or kingdom like that?" Jon's tone was appalled, Ghost channeling his masters forlorn mood in a ball at the Stark bastard's heels. "And what about you, uncle? Have _you_ fathered a bastard? How many times have you given up your honor for a quick roll in the hay?"

A long silence hung in the air as Benjen stared blankly into the distance, low red light playing off the scruffy curve of his unshaven jaw. Feeling embarrassed by his outburst, Jon lowered his eyes to his uncle's worn boots and opened his mouth to apologize.

"If you truly indeed to join the Watch Jon, you had best realize that there is less shame in having a bastard then you know."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and I make no profit writing any fanfiction of it. Further, I'd like it to be clear that in the case of any similarity between anything I write and the future work of any author writing the original work, that I hold no rights to any fanfiction. I make no claim to monetary compensation, and never will. For any intent and purpose, I cede any monetary rights to any fanfiction work to their respective authors.

**Margaery**

The wind was in the West, blowing the warm scent of flowers in from the burning red sunset. Margaery breathed in the air of the Reach, tasting the sweet fragrance in her lungs before blowing it out with a disgruntled look.

Delicate, soft fingers tangled agitatedly in her tumbledown brown curls as the Tyrell maiden closed doe eyes against the blazing fields of flowers and saccharine fruits. Highgarden was exceptionally beautiful, bursting with bounty of the reddest apples and the most lush grapes to be found in the Seven Kingdoms.

It was also a prison.

Home was a beautiful illusion, little more than a collection of poisonously sweet castles that served as different cells. The only country she knew was an unending field, cut off by arbitrary borders. Surely, there was more to the world than floating down the Mander in a drunken daze?

Margaery's upper lip curled in contempt. Where had the Reach of legend gone? Where was the land of brave hearts and gentle hills, where men and women rose to the challenge of honor and courage? All that fenced her in on four sides was a drowsy shire, where the people swam in a haze of opulence and hedonism.

From the cradle Margaery had supped on intrigue and riddles, honing her mind into diamond sharpness beneath the tutelage of the Queen of Thorns. And for what? A line of simpering fops as far as the eye could see, with her father puffing through his jowls behind her in an effort to find the most glamorous of them all to package her off to and tie her down.

She was meant for more than this. Margaery knew it like she knew the beat of blood in her veins.

"Staring into the sun again, sweet sister? It will hardly bring you any closer to it."

Loras sidled up next to her, folding his arms down over the windowsill and mirroring her posture. The light out of the horizon cast golden highlights into his wavy brown locks, chiselling the fine angular features of his face into a sharp relief.

"Perhaps not." Margaery agreed, bitterness riding in her voice like a steady tide. "But it's as close as we'll get here, isn't it?

Loras well understood his sister's implication. Both Tyrell siblings longed for open freedom, rather than their current existences caged in by their father's word and the expectations of the Reach they lived in. Willas and Garlan were both older than Margaery and her younger brother, and both drowned under the perfumes of Highgarden.

Oh, never doubt that Margaery loved all of her brothers. Willas was far-sighted, Olenna's true heir that read into plots upon plots. No matter how many dozens of hounds, or horses, or hawks he fawned over, Margaery was more than aware of her eldest brother's cunning.

Margaery loved her Garlan _the Gallant_ no less. Garlan was soft and rotund in Margaery's distant memory, despite his current physical lethality. Tall, slender of limb, strong with his blows and quick with his steps, Garlan was a warrior worthy of envy.

Yet neither of her older brothers enjoyed the confidences of Margaery. Perhaps it was the half decade or more between her and her elder brothers, but the Rose of Highgarden could hardly trust them with her secrets. Love them, yes. Cherish and protect them, yes. But not trust them with her deepest desires.

A wild desire to run beyond the sun and moon curdled in Margaery's heart. To taste the smoky Dornish sands and the bitter bite of the North was one of her most forbidden desires.

"But it is not close enough, is it Margaery? Loras pointed out, his lyrical voice dipping in sorrow and longing. "It will never be enough."

Loras was aware of the sheer shame and loss of honor Margaery could wreak on their House if a fancy took her. Rather than grow delicately beneath a glass prison, Margaery had twisted thorny and impetuous beneath the heavy hands of the Lord and Lady Tyrell.

It would only take one man – highborn or low – to strike at Margaery's heart, and Loras knew that his sister would run to be with whatever man had won her. The Knight of Flowers knew his sister well, and cautioned her to be careful with her heart. But there was only so much Loras could restrain her.

Margaery had breathed her plan to him in the night. One day, his only sister would find herself a husband she liked - and would ensnare the boy. Seduce him into worshipping every place and every crevice of her, honour bound and blood born to take her as his wife until death clove them asunder.

And Loras only grinned wryly, saying little and nothing of the fire burning beneath Margaery's beautifully cultivated flowers. It was the least Loras could do for the closest of his siblings and only sister.

For Margaery had never even breathed the possibility that Loras would be less than the perfect knight.

Never gave rumor that Loras was damned in the eyes of Gods and men _. 'A man shall not lie with a man as with a woman'_ spoke the Seven, grave and imperious in their austere holiness. And once he connected the dots between the Faith and his hardness in the night, Loras knew that he was damned.

Made wrong, or cursed from birth out of little fault of his own. But regardless, it couldn't change the reality that Loras' cock grew hard to the shaved and sweaty planes of a hard warrior's body, rather than to the perfumed softness of a maid. No choice of his own drew Loras to the hardy musk of a man's flesh rather than to the flowerly scent of a woman. It simply was his secret shame and secret rage.

Loras had hardly been asked to be made to love another man as men love a woman. And the making of a man was with the Gods. Yet what sort of God would strike him with an affiliation he had not earned? How could he be cursed from his very birth to either personal misery or shame and dishonor upon his house?

Not a Seven that Loras could believe in.

* * *

**Viserys**

"What were you _thinking?_ "

Let it never be said that Rhaegar would not take his proper pound of flesh from a man, Viserys thought wryly. It had been a few days since the Prince of Duskendale had sent word of his _'impending'_ marriage to the Lords of the Realm, inviting them to join him in celebration and friendship.

It had been neither the first or second day that Rhaegar had sought his younger brother out. Nay, it had been delayed to the fifth day since the fateful small council meeting before Rhaegar finally blew his stack and stared down at Viserys with venomous eyes.

Viserys was a grown man though, and a Targaryen besides. And despite Rhaeger being his brother, near-father, and King, the Prince would hold his spine straight for love. Valaena – wonderous woman that she was, deserved at least that much from her secret husband.

"I was thinking." Viserys began, lavender eyes darting about the dark overhang of his room and the silent night outside. "That I would marry for love. That I would bind myself to an amazing woman with _proper_ lineage." Aerys' second son insisted as a point in favour. "Whom I dearly cared for, and who could bear good dragon sons for me."

There had been no thought of purity and Valyria when Viserys had wed Valaena. Only heated passion, and a Prince's amazement and adoration at a woman who would dare unhorse him for a chance at crowning him with her favour before all the realm. Any sons or daughter he got upon Valaena would be Viserys' children by love, rather than by duty.

But as much as he loved his older brother, Viserys knew Rhaegar was bound to duty far closer than any Lord in the realm could be. There was Aegon's throne, twisted blades ready to kill an unworthy liege. There was the prophecy of the Prince who was Promised, laying over their house like a pall. There were Seven Kingdoms, threadbare at the seams and begging for a careful hand. There were the Free Cities, scrabbling and sinking down into a mire of blood and murder across the sea.

Licking his lips, Viserys looked up at his brother's impassive face and swallowed. "And I was thinking that it would be best that I wed a Lady of a noble house in the Crownlands, to discourage an ambitious Great House from the thought of having a grandson on the Iron Throne."

Rhaegar's eyes were keen, and had likely known even before Viserys' first excuse that he'd married without a single thought for the realm of the blood that it could cost its people. Yet Rhaegar was never cruel. Not to his enemies, nor his allies, and most certainly not to his family. Which is why Viserys knew that if he could come up with enough advantages of his love marriage, that Rhaegar would not only _allow_ it – but promote it.

"There were quite a few girls of my age among the Great Houses." The Prince of Duskendale pointed out, drinking in the King's impassive face. "I could hardly have chosen any of them without insulting the rest of them, and giving an ambitious good-father a claim to the throne. Better to marry for love, and sing it among the high and low folk. The smallfolk would love it, and the high folk would laugh rather than taking it as a personal insult when I chose a woman other than their daughter or sister."

"I married for duty, not for love." Rhaegar pointed out, whisper soft and intent. Sunlight plays in rippling shadows across his brother's face, and just for a moment, Viserys sees their father. Mad and raving, burning flesh stinking the air and cruelty sharpened like knives, and the Prince of Duskendale barely contains a shudder.

It was unfair to Rhaegar to see Aery's in the King's face. Neither of them chose to be born from the Mad King's loins, and as King Rhaegar had never shown a single tendency towards the hereditary Targaryen madness their House suffered from. Yet all the regret in Westeros couldn't change the fact that the Targaryens shared the same features, inherited the same facial expressions, and even spoke in a similar voice – before the madness had ruined all of Aerys' charm and handsomeness.

Viserys' voice is low and gravely from his distress, and the flash of pain that crosses Rhaegar's blank expression in a split second tells the Prince that Rhaegar knew exactly what Viserys was thinking of. "Would you suggest then that you don't love your wife, Your Grace?"

"I chose my duty. I did not marry Elia for love, though I grew to love her all the same. As many Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms would agree about their own marriages."

Bitter amusement curled Viserys' lips. "So if duty weighs more than love, why have you not set Elia aside for a more fertile woman? It would be a benefit to the Realm, surely." The younger man knows that he's being unfair. That he's goading his brother with unneeded spite, spurred by the distress of old memories and never-forgotten trauma.

Which is why Viserys is not surprised when a sudden black rage invades Rhaegar's gaze, murderously glinting with such ferocity that the Prince feels his mouth go dry. His older brother was rarely given to passion. Impetuous action was not the prerogative of a King, Rhaegar always insisted. But ever since the Rebellion, Viserys' foggy memories of his brother's coolly civil marriage had been replaced by an ardor that bordered on obsession.

What was that, but impetuous action and passion? Viserys was suddenly and brutally reminded of tales told by his mother when he had been a boy on the knee, of their distant bastard kinsman that had burnt the realm down when his lady love was given to a Dornish Prince. Watching Rhaegar stalk away with an ugly look on his face, Viserys couldn't help but wonder if Rhaegar had inherited some of their father's madness after all.

Would Rhaegar have sent the Kingdoms careening into war for love in some distant, other life?

* * *

**Arianne**

Cold water splashed over her, and Arianne jolted to awareness with a shriek. Low curses were murmured in her ear as Daemon pulled away, their tangle of limbs bound all the more with the wet sheets intertwined about their naked bodies.

Finally pulling free, Arianne rose from the tangle of pillows and soaked blankets cursing bloody murder. Rage shone in her dark eyes as the Heir to Sunspear turned to give whichever bold interloper had dared to disturb her the tongue lashing of a lifetime.

Only to freeze back in shock when she came face to face with her father, Doran Martell's expression perfectly neutral despite his daughter's nudity and the unmistakeable presence of yet another lover. Shame bubbled up in her gut as her father's dark gaze flickered towards Daemon Sand with recognition. Arianne squashed the feeling down with determined rage – she was a grown Dornish woman. She had no need or desire to pay heed to a petty old man's judgement.

"You were due in my solar an hour past." Making no comment on her naked flesh, or even giving any sign to his thoughts, the Prince of Dorne hobbled away, the ever faithful Areo Hotah at his side and ready to assist.

Dragging a frustrated hand through her tangled strands, Arianne made an inarticulate growl of rage before turning to Daemon Sand. "It would be best if you made yourself scare for a few days. You know the old man has never been fond of you." The old man was all she ever considered her meddling, staid father. Sometimes she fiercely wished that _Oberyn_ had been her father rather than Doran.

Wry amusement twisted Arianne's plush lips. Then again, knowing Dorne, the Red Viper very well could be.

Sinking down in a plush chair directly across the fine rounded table from her father, Arianne plopped up a curled arm to settle her chin on as she stared out the coloured glass panes with a bored expression. Blood orange trees shone invitingly in the afternoon sunlight, ripe and ready for the picking. Water crested elegantly curved fountains, and out of the corner of her vision a naked child ran the terraces in delight at another lazy day in the Water Gardens.

Everything from her lazy posture to the unbrushed status of her hair to the clinging, barely decent gown that clung to her curves was a statement. A profession of disdain and disrespect. Doran knew it, and Arianne knew it.

Though the Prince of Dorne was always too civil and distantly polite to ever mention such a thing. Refusing to acknowledge it reduced her displays to those of a petulant child, which burned Arianne. One day she would make him look at her with something besides those distantly disappointed eyes.

"Prince Viserys will be getting married in three months' time. "

"Joy of all joys." Arianne drawled, voice filled with sarcasm and boredom. "I suppose you'll be going to King's Landing for that?" Interest sparked beneath her facade. If Doran left to King's Landing, her father would be gone for at least two months. Two months without the old man breathing down her neck. Two months where he had no choice but to leave Dorne in her hands.

Two months for her to begin spreading her wings, seizing control over Sunspear and its domains.

"No, you will."

Lurching back, Arianne straightened in her chair to glare at her father with a ferocious frown. Part of her wanted to deny it out of hand, imperious at the thought that Doran would treat her like a glorified political stooge. But another part saw the opportunity to get away from the judging gaze of the Prince of Dorne – to be treated like an adult capable of making her own choices rather than an unruly child. And there was a quiet, soft part of her that relished the chance to see her uncles, her aunts, and her cousins that she hadn't seen hide nor hair of for at least half a decade.

"Fine."

A slow, shallow smile curved Doran's lips. Approval glinted in the Prince of Dorne's dark eyes, and Arianne cursed the little girl in her that preened instinctively under her distant father's appreciation.

"Are we done here?" She bit out, a mixture of nasty pleasure and old pain mingling when the gratitude that shone subtly in Doran's face winked out.

Blinking slowly, Doran folded his gouty hands. "Not quite." Staring quite blatently at Arianne's mussed hair, the elder Martell sighed. "I've told you many times, I don't want that boy around you. I don't want him in your bed. I don't want him in your home."

Arianne's fist thumped emphatically on the table. "Oh come off it! There's nothing wrong with it, and you know it old man! Stop trying to treat me like some little Northern doll!" She was a Dornishwoman in Dorne. No man, father or not, had the right to tell her whom she could and could not take to bed.

"And what if that boy gets a bastard on you, Arianne? Your marriage prospects are poor enough without another man's child clinging to your skirts."

Throwing her head back, Arianne laughed high and bitter. "Poor prospects? I'm the heir to _Sunspear_! Not that it ever stopped you from trying to push me to the side for your darling boys to rule." She added, old pain mingling with spite.

Rather than deny it, Doran seemed to sag slightly in place, an aged weariness tingling his features. "It was never my intent for you to feel sidelined or unloved, my daughter."

"Well you did a piss-poor job of that, didn't you? Taking away someone's inheritance doesn't exactly smell of affection to me, old man."

Thin bloodless lips curled as Doran fixed his daughter with a penetrating stare. "What sort of father would I have been if I had simply laid back and raised you to Sunspear-"

"One that at least follows the customs of the Rhoynar!"

"When I could have had my daughter on the Iron Throne?"

Silence hung thick and heavy, Arianne unable to contain her gape. "You wanted to make me the _Queen_?"

Satisfaction at daydream victory briefly lit in Doran's soft tones. "A Queen, at the least. It would have been quite the coup, wouldn't it? A Dornishwoman as _the_ dragon's bride, twice in as many generations?"

"I suppose." Arianne smirked at the thought. Nothing could ever take away the pain of distant years. Silence had hung too heavy between father and daughter for their relationship to ever mend. But an amused sort of admiration wasn't beyond Arianne.

The heaviness returned, Doran's sudden energy draining away and reducing the Prince of Dorne from triumphant politician to defeated father again. "Though those plans no longer matter. Aegon will marry Rhaenys and Daenerys. Not even the dragons take three brides at once."

"How a man can wed his sister and his aunt, I have no understanding." Areo contributed for the first time, breaking his silent stand by the closed door to Doran's solar.

"Well. They are Targaryens." Arianne pointed out, suppressing the shudder that crawled through her skin at the thought of bedding _her_ uncle and brother.

"Aye. They are that."

Pinching his nose, Doran sighed. "When you arrive at the Capital, call on your aunt. It's only Viserys' wedding they've announced, but I wouldn't be surprised if the King decided to marry Aegon to his sister and aunt shortly after. Frugality is a trait of his. Elia would know her son's wedding plans earlier than almost anyone else."

"I would have done that anyway. She _is_ my aunt. It's not like I would have planned to avoid her."

* * *

**Robb**

White Harbor was always strikingly different from the rest of the North when he clapped eyes on it, Robb decided. For all the prestige of Winterfell, the seat of the Manderlys was thrice the size of Winter Town. Cobbled streets, the rare spiralling white stone tower, and the Sept that loomed in cheerful pink sandstone. It transformed the jewel of the North into something that breathed near sacrilege.

Few would dare to say it, with fealty to the Iron Throne and hundreds of years as a Realm welded by dragonfire. But this was the North, and the First Men remembered the weirwood trees. The Faces of the Gods could still be found north of the Neck, and they would not abide a Seven-Faced interloper that had comes with axes and fire to the South.

Tearing his eyes away from the Sept that seemed so jarringly out of place in the North, Robb spun about to lean back on the railing and stare out to sea instead. The dock of the ship rocked gently beneath his feet – an unforgettable reminder of the drowned depths below.

It was his first time at sea, along with Sansa. His parents and Joffrey had sailed before, and the Bite was hardly uncharted. As long as they avoided the Sisters like any sensible Northman, their voyage down to Maidenpool should pass with little trouble. Joffrey and Robb had both been impatient, and expressed a preference to simply sail the entire way to Storm's End rather than waste time overland, but a stern word from Ned Stark about letting his lady wife enjoy the air of the Riverlands for a small time silenced any complaints.

Sansa had spent the entire morning heaving into a bucket with seasickness, but Robb had no doubt she would have preferred to ride the whole way. Sniffing flowers and riding through fields like some song with her lordly love.

The Stark heir snorted.

"There's no need to be so bereft, my friend." Joffrey threw an arm over Robb's shoulders, leaning in close conspiratorially with a wineskin in hand. "One day, I'm sure that you too will find a woman to put up with your ugly mug."

Shoving his foster brother away, Robb snatched the wineskin and drained it in a few swift gulps. Holding off Joffrey's half-hearted attempts to regain it with one hand, the redhead drained the last few drops before throwing the empty sack at his friend.

"Well that's just plain rude." Joffrey smirked before popping the cap from his second wineskin and taking a gulp. The two friends passed the alcohol back and forth, drinking silently as White Harbor faded over the blue horizon and the open sea spread in all directions. When the warm buzz of drunkness burnt in their blood, Robb dragged a hand through his thick auburn hair.

" I wouldn't doubt that. I know my mother has it in her head to find my some soft southron girl to wed while you're romping in bed with my sister."

"You could always have my sister in exchange." Joffrey laughed, half serious and half jest. "Seven know that she's smitten enough with you in the letters she sends me. Cella's a sweet enough girl to like you despite all the terrible things I tell her about you when I write her."

"She's _eight_."

Nibbling on a slightly numb lip, Joffrey shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the mast. "Six years isn't such a difference you know. I'm sure if you were agreeable, your parents and mine could arrange a betrothal for you. It wouldn't take more than four years for her to flower, I would guess."

"Four years is a long time." Robb evaded, chewing the inside of his own slightly numbed cheek.

"Four years is less than the lifetime that Jon's going to spend freezing his cock off up on the Wall." Joffrey ignored the sour look Robb gave him. "Gods be good, I wouldn't survive up there. No wine and no women."

"Well that's not entirely true. I hear they've got some poxy whores and piss-thin ale." Seizing on the change of topic, Robb shrugged nonchalantly. Joffrey always seemed to bring out his uncouth side, especially with alcohol involved.

"Not that you'd know a thing about that." Joffrey retorted breezily, laughed at the flush that flooded the Stark's features. "You're a good sort Stark, but you're so green you piss grass. Have you even kissed a woman, much less fucked her?"

"Of course I did." Robb lied, embarrassment burning the tips of his ears. Years of living with Joffrey had made him more than familiar with the Southron teen's ways. The South was different than the North. A man could have his fill of wenches and whores will barely a blink. But the Old North was not the South, and he was a Stark – not a Frey.

No doubt his father would have cuffed him about the ear if Robb had even dared to peek inside a brothel. And he'd had more than enough lectures about not taking advantage of the fear of servants to trust that any kitchen wench looking coyly at him wasn't motivated more by desperation than attraction.

How depressing.

Snorting into the back of his hand with laughter, Joffrey took another swig of wine. "You lying cunt. Who?"

"Jeyne Poole." It was the first name that popped into his head, and Robb inwardly cursed. If Joffrey took it upon himself to ask Sansa, he'd either have to admit he was spewing tales or lie to his sister as well.

"Aye, she's a cute one." Joffrey agreed empathetically, making a filthy gesture with his free hand. "Lovely little teats and a sweet tasting cunt. Not," a sudden expression of desperation crossed Joffrey's face. "That I would know anything about that. Sansa's friends were off limits after all."

Smirking, Robb snatched back the wineskin and finished the last gulp. "If you say so Joff. I see no evil, I speak no evil. For the right price, of course."

Joffrey's groan was loud enough to draw the eyes of the rest of the crew standing on the deck.

* * *

**Elia**

Elia was laughing merrily at a poor jest from Lady Cressey when Rhaegar drifted into her solar. The game of fake smiles and clever jests with cruel hidden daggers was more honed in Dorne than in any of the other Seven Kingdoms. All Dornishwomen worth knowing were skilled at it.

The Queen was the best of them all.

A tilt of the head with a flash of perfect white teeth. The slight widening of her rich, dark eyes with false surprise and joy. The light peal of her laughter when Elia needed to make a jest, or laugh at one. A toss of luxurious dark hair over her shoulder, glossy strands tumbling down in ever-so-humble bashfulness. And lurking beneath it all, a seething resentment.

' _Did you think I wouldn't hear when you called me a Dornish slut?'_

' _Look how I laugh, dear lady, with those that dare to suggest behind closed doors that my husband should set me aside.'_

It is always the same when Rhaegar steps into a room occupied primarily by women of the court. The hushed lull, and then the giggling titters _. 'Oh but your husband is so handsome, Your Grace. Why if he were in my bed, I think I might give him an army of sons simply out of desire for him. Would you happen to wish for some_ assistance _? I know your constitution is delicate, Your Grace...'_

Elia loathed it. She hated having to giggle along behind her hand. She hated having to bashfully blush and turn down any sort of ribald offer as if it sounded gently scandalous rather than purely offensive. Black hate bubbled through her seams, contained behind the mask of sweet and gentle Elia of Dorne. The mask that only became truth amongst her family and true friends, rather than the beastly vultures that lusted after her husband.

Rhaegar was _her's_. Every breath. Every pump of blood beneath his pale skin. Every single glimmering silver strand of his hair. She'd given up the ways of the Rhoynar, never knowing even the lips of another man for a Valyrian Prince of an Andal people. The sun of Dorne shone in her least of all her siblings. For Rhaegar. She'd given him all of herself, and the least she was owed was all of him.

If she must be a monogamous Andal, her husband would be as well. And there was not but poison for any woman that thought to change that.

(Rhaegar thought it was a jest when Elia once told him she would slay any woman that laid a hand on him. Her silver king had no idea that she'd walked in a naked noblewoman in their bed, looking to seduce _her_ husband. Sweet Rhaegar would never find out that Elia had fed another woman the strangler, and made the body disappear with Oberyn's assistance. And the court would never realize that lusty little Lady Hayford was fish food, rather than run away to the Free Cities with a lover of ill-repute)

Tilting her head to the side quizzically, Elia beamed up at the King. "Is there something the matter, dearheart?" Another titter of giggles erupted, and the poison running through her veins bubbled just a touch more.

Striding across to his wife, Rhaegar dropped to a knee and pressed a kiss to the back of Elia's knuckles in a courtly gesture. "There is naught wrong in the world when I gaze upon your face, my love." The King's voice was all music, sweet on the ear.

Pleasure, familiar after so many years wed, but no less welcome curled warm in the Dornishwoman's chest. Pleasure, and a rush of heat that made her nipples peak beneath the thicker, proper orange and sun yellow gown cut in the style so favoured amongst the nobles of King's Landing. For Elia recognized the desire darkening Rhaegar's eyes, and as always, found herself responding to it.

Smiling brightly for the benefit of the noblewomen crowding her solar and listening on every word, Elia laid a hand on Rhaegar's cheek. "Then I'm afraid I must part with you all, dear friends. It seems me husband has need of me."

Even the dreadfully boorish women north of Dorne could read between those lines, and within a short minute the solar was empty. Oberyn grinned roguishly from his place by the door, before fleeing to the outside halls and leaving the couple alone.

"Elia." Rhaegar growled out, voice husky with a wild look in his eyes.

A smile curved her lips. "Hush, Rhaegar." Then she pressed her lips to his, more than prepared to take what she desired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Dornishwomen: I had two different scenes here about two different women. Arianne – the experienced, promiscuous desert rose. And Elia, who never touched or kissed a man beyond her husband. It's not a measure of how I like or dislike a character, or personal preference really. But when I think about it, it becomes very clear to me that despite Dorne's general permissiveness towards sex, I doubt that highborn women in Dorne are actually sexually free like the smallfolk are. The reason being that Dorne is as Dorne does – but none of the other Kingdoms are Dorne. If a Dornish noblewoman had a stream of lovers, and then wed a Dornishnobleman, no one would think anything of it. If she was sent to marry anyone outside of Dorne, her husband would consider it a grave insult and might even send her right back.
> 
> Arianne has 'poor marriage prospects' because she's so promiscuous. Being the heir to Sunspear gives her some leeway, as she'd only marry a second son or third son - if she married outside Dorne at all – and when the woman has higher status, the Andals and First Men are more willing to swallow the insult of a soiled bride and get on with the getting on. But her being spoiled as such, means that none of the Great Houses would send a son to wed her. Their pride wouldn't allow it. But lesser houses outside Dorne would be willing to be more flexible, and inside Dorne they wouldn't even care. Aegon - though her cousin and half Dornish - would be just as Andal as the majority of the men he ruled, and the idea of him taking a soiled wife would probably offend both him and his father, as fare as Doran would be concerned.
> 
> Which touches on Elia being a 'kissless virgin' for Rhaegar. I would rather suspect her mother made it very clear from birth she planned to send to be a wife to an heir of some Great House outside Dorne (remember the attempts to betroth her to Jaime). Which means it would be browbeaten into her that even if she's Rhoynar, she better act like an Andal when it comes to her sexuality. Not to say she never kissed or touched anyone – that's what handmaidens in Dorne are for – but that she didn't get around with men. She's certainly no wilted flower, seeing as she was possessive enough to kill a woman for attempting to seduce her husband, and stringent enough to lay the same expectation of no paramours on him that she has to face.
> 
> I think people forget in their rush to modernize Westeros and impose "progressive Dornish customs" that the Dornish are a fraction of the population of the continent at best. And that they're foreign to the Andals and the First Men. In fact, if not for Aegon failing to conquer Dorne, I suspect that Dorne itself would be just another Andal province where women were treated like property, like the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. The idea of women's rights is probably so ingrained in Dorne not because of ancient legends about Nymeria, but because it's a reaction to the constant conflicts with the Iron Throne (and the Reach/Stormkings before it). They were driven to hold onto every part of their culture under that threat, rather than simply assimilate.
> 
> (Speaking of which, I would maintain that not conquering Dorne with dragons is a military impossibility. It's like saying America couldn't conquer Mexico. The disparity of force is so large that the Iron Throne simply could have taken and held/destroyed anything of value - mines, forests, trade cities - with dragons, and left the Dornish to flounder about in sand caves. Sure, guerrillas would exist, but that doesn't create a functional state.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Valaena**

Pentos reeked. There was a golden mask to the city, glittering in the sun like a polished gem. Wealthy traders and merchant princes abounded the harbor and the ivory streets beneath sprawling manses, clad in dazzling silks of every colour. Rich bounty to be found on many a corner.

But it was little more than a facade. Blood and starvation ran in the gutters, mingling into a sea of human misery and suffering. Slaves cringed through the shadows, old and new scars of the lash burning bright crimson on their flesh. It was Flea Bottom writ large, dipped in a pool of hedonistic degeneracy and placed on an alter of greed.

Valaena loathed it, and wished that she had a dragon of her own like her distant ancestors, to burn it clean and rebuild it anew. But there were no dragons anymore – only the thin steel of her rapier in hand and the studied movements of the Braavosi water dance. One woman, no matter how skilled, could not change the face of the Free Cities.

More the pity.

Tossing her shoulder length silver-gold mane, Valaena gave her anxious crew a once over with her hard grey-green eyes. Her first mate gave a solemn nod in return, Ralf's wrinkled face already eager for home and his grandchildren. Valaena spared a last glance for the foul city, caressing the hilt of her rapier longingly before striding up the gangplank.

Taking up trade on the Narrow Sea had infuriated Monford, who'd spent many hours after discovering his young sister had a ship of her own ranting about proper ladylike pursuits. Aurane had merely laughed – the loveable fool. The sea was in her blood, and Valaena never felt quite as home as she did with a shifting deck beneath her boots.

Except tangled in the sheets with Viserys, but that was a different matter all together. And by the Seven, one day she'd convince the man to run away with her. Or at least take up trading at her side. Lord of Ships was a prestigious enough post, she supposed, and Valaena couldn't fairly blame her good-brother for wanting someone to trust in that nest of vipers.

The _King_ was her good-brother, and Rhaegar _knew_. And approved of their marriage – eventually – Viserys had assured her through raven. Wasn't that just a dizzying thought?

Sea breeze pulled through her hair as _The Red Queen_ picked up speed and wind, the great prow of the ship slicing through the dark waters of the Narrow Sea. Valaena had eventually come to own more than one ship – her business acumen working towards financial success, with a quiet contribution here and there from her husband. But _The Red Queen_ had been her first ship, and was dearest to her heart.

From sweet plum wine of the Trident to herbs painstakingly scrabbled out of the mercantile desert old Tyrell had turned Highgarden into, Valaena traded them all. Dizzying wines from Tyrosh, Lyseni dyes, the finest of Myrish lace. Save slaves, who the Velaryon bought out of pity and freed in Westeros. One freed soul per journey.

And one murdered slave owner every time she walked her gang plank. Viserys knew the most of her mind on the matter. _Madzhan of Volantis. Jaqen of Lorath. Alequo Ryndoon beneath the drunk eaves of Tyrosh._ Many more names. Many more deaths. Her crew suspected her of something, though Valaena supposed their presumptions would be closer to riding some stranger's cock in the dark alleys rather than stalking the night with bright steel in hand.

As if Valaena would have debased herself so. Westeros was both more and less enlightened than Essos. The Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men that sailed by her word and command, shaking their heads at the unholy effrontery to the Gods that slavery was. But at least the men of Essos did not automatically assume she was a loose whore simply for the sight of breeches about her legs and the calluses of her sword hand.

"We make for Duskendale." Valaena murmured lowly to Ralf, still lost in thought as she retreated to her own quarters and bolted the door behind her. There was little point in returning to Driftmark. Her brother and her mother had never approved of her life choices. Not her decision to seek her own fortune, nor the brazen scandal she'd caused when unhorsing Viserys that distant day at Summerhall.

Though Valaena supposed now that she was set to publicly marry a Prince, her trueborn brother and her lady mother would welcome her back at High Tide with open arms and praise at whatever wiles they thought she'd connived her secret husband with. The hypocrites.

Better to return directly to the seat of her husband. It was nearer to the eventual markets of the goods she was returning with, far less crowded than King's Landing. And if Valaena was lucky, her husband may have returned for his monthly inspection of the estate.

Snorting, Valena poured a goblet of Dornish sour and raised the deep red wine to her lips. If her dead father was still living, the old sot would likely have been thrilled at the increasingly womanly change to her mannerisms through the years.

Viserys had been the only one to never expect anything from her, even from the first time she'd met him as a little girl when Aerys was still King. The little prince hadn't blinked any eye when Valaena had been introduced in the gowns she hated, nor had he balked when she'd come at him with a pilfered training sword in the salle when she could sneak away from the sewing lessons her mother insisted upon. And on that day, she'd loved him.

Loved him with all the deluded passion of a girl with her first crush. Loved Viserys when they were older, barely more than children, and she unseated him in a joust only to have him smile up at her without judgement or resentment. Loved him enough to want to change for him, even when Viserys would never had asked for such a thing.

Valaena had allowed her shorn locks to grow long. Ceased to bind her chest tight to hide her femininity. Softened her skin with the finest of Lysene creams. Learned to trace rouge on her lips with all the shameless delicacy of a high-born courtesan. All to see that shy delight light up his face at the beauty she ceased to hide, for _him_.

The creak of the ship might have been dearly beloved to Valaena. But she loved Viserys more than that, and home was where he was.

* * *

**Robb**

Stretching his stiff muscles with a low groan, Robb dug the heel of his boot into the soft red clay of Maidenpool. The Riverlands were different from the North, to say the least. Far warmer, far wetter, and far more red. Clay red with the crimson blood split by the Andals and the First Men for the bounty of the River Kings in millennia lost, if Old Nan was to be believed.

There was a liveliness to his mother's features the Robb couldn't find it in himself to resent. How would he have felt to go live in another part of the world for so long? A different realm, with different gods, and different people? The Tullys were people of the Riverlands, and no matter how well his mother had adapted to her life as Lady of Winterfell, there had always been a sad part of her longing for the sandstone walls of Riverrun.

"Cat!" Was bellowed from the milling crowd of smallfolk and merchants of the minor port town. Maidenpool was wealthy for its size, walled and well-fortified, with little poverty or hunger in the streets. But it didn't hold a candle to the apparent grandeur of nearby Duskendale, or King's Landing. "Cat!" came again from a stocky man with a fierce red beard.

There was a certain familiarity to that face Robb thought, as it butted through the crowds. His hand found its way unconsciously up to the auburn unshaven scruff of his face, and realization clicked in Robb's mind. Who else could it be but his uncle, to share so many features with Robb himself?

Catelyn rushed into Edmure's arms, fondness lighting her typically somber features. "Ed!" she laughed, letting her younger brother swing her about they were still children rather than adults grown. Robb's father swept up, grave features bent in friendliness, and the sight of his mother and uncle's reunion was hidden from sight.

"Well this is all very delightfully soft and mushy. " A new voice grumbled as a lad his own age pushed through the crowd, a vaguely exasperated look on his face as he stared at the reunion. Strong features with a square jaw and crowned with sandy-brown hair shifted to stare at Robb, and the Stark heir found his eyes skeptically climbing.

"Beg pardon, but do I know you?"

The brunette's lips curled, itching wicked even as he spared a glance for where Joffrey was eagerly flirting with a gaggle of fisher's daughters. "I suspect not. But I think I know you." Shoving a hand out, blue eyes met blue eyes with a touch of challenge. "Robert Arryn of the Vale cousin. I'd like to think you knew of me."

Meeting the hand with a forearm clasp, Robb smirked back with a wolf's grin. "Oh I think I might have heard of you, once or twice. Sometimes we get stories full of hot air up North. You know how it can be."

Robert only laughed at the faint mocking, dropping Robb's arms and staring over at where his aunt and uncle were speaking. "Gods know it's probably the only heat you bear shaggers get up there. Glad to be of service."

"Wolf shaggers."

"Of course, of course."

Folding his arms over his chest, Robb frowned over the milling crowds. "I thought you'd have been to the Vale by now. Not traipsing about with our good uncle."

"Well I would have been, but Uncle was so _very_ excited to hear his sister was coming down from the North. Why, I heard little else from the man when I arrived at Riverrun. I suppose I wanted to come see what all the fuss was about. T'was no hardship to delay my journey a few weeks."

Silence stretched between them as shouts came distantly from sailors milling about. An idea sparked in Robb's mind, and grinning wickedly, he turned to stare at his cousin. "Care to see something interesting?" Without waiting for a reply, Robb gave a sharp whistle.

The Arryn heir cursed foully when Grey Wind came bounding down the gangplank, the direwolf pup having grown swiftly in the few months since the direwolves had been found in the snow. Grey Wind reached to Robb's knee – not even yet half of the direwolf's likely eventual height.

Laughing, Robert cocked a brow in question. "Adopting wolves now, Stark? Fitting, I suppose."

"Grey Wind is no wolf." Robb pointed out, scratching the direwolf beneath the jaw. "He's a direwolf. My older brother found them in the snow a few months back. My half-brother." He added after a look of confusion found its way onto his cousin's face. Jon was a few months older, according to their father – and would have been Lord of Winterfell one day if Jon hadn't been baseborn.

Strange, how little more than an accident of birth could change so much for half the Kingdom.

"Come." Robb decided after it looked as if his parents and Edmure weren't going to part anytime soon. "I'll introduce you to my sister and her betrothed."

"Baratheon, is it?" Robert mused when Robb made a quick introduction between his cousin and his friend. "So how many bastards have you got so far? One for every year I hear."

Fiercely frowning in return, Joffrey crossed his arms over his thick chest and stared down at the other lordling. "Nay." Then the somber mask cracked. "I think you're mistaking me for my father. I've only got one for every two years."

"Of course." Robert allowed, a smile of indulgence on his face. "Got the first one on your wet nurse when you were still in the crib, I suppose?"

The sound of Robb's laugh was one only the young and free could make.

* * *

**Daenerys**

Silver-gold strands twisted beneath the sunlight as Daenerys pulled a comb through them. Frowning slightly at her reflection in the mirror, Dany considered a few of the different styles popular in King's Landing before leaving her straight hair to hang straight and free. It was one of the few things she remembered from her mother, the Dowager Queen having died young from a sickness that swept Dragonstone.

Rhaella Targaryen had a fondness for wearing her hair long. Apparently, it was the Targaryen thing to do. Rhaegar always left his hair free. Viserys either wore it unbound or in a ponytail. Rhaenys wore her wavy midnight strands nearly down to her waist. Even her Martell good-sister only rarely wove her hair into braids. Not a one of them had hair shorter than their shoulders, save Aegon alone, who trimmed his hair at the jaw.

Apparently her nephew did it as a jest to resemble old paintings and tapestries that depicted the first Aegon. Dany would have laughed along with him, if the similarity between the image of the Conqueror and her betrothed wasn't close enough to be chilling. Or thrilling. Dany hadn't decided which yet.

Rising to her feet, Dany smoothed the fine black silk gown over her curves. Daenerys was vain enough to admit that she cut a flattering figure. Delicately short with ivory skin, pert breasts that filled a hand, blazing violet eyes, and soft hair that looked like it was spun of mingled moonbeams and sunshine. Or so the minstrels said. She'd been pleased the first time a nobleman complimented her beauty. She's been far less pleased when the man thought to seduce her.

Elia had been the least pleased of all, and Dany rather suspected it had been her good-sister's schemes that eventually had Lord Rosby's legitimized bastard shipped to the wall. Despite merely being her brother's wife in name, the Martell woman had been Dany's mother since she was four years old. And no matter how much the Dornishwoman doted on her collection of children, even Daenerys could admit she was daunted by her good-sister's anger.

It was a common mistake of the court Dany saw, Rhaegar's hand on her shoulder as he whispered in her ear and pointed the cues out for her. So many thought that simply because she smiled beautifully, and laughed so brightly, and sympathized with the smallfolk, that Elia was soft of heart and soft of head. Few could see the burning poisonous darkness in the Queen's eyes.

Daenerys admired Elia for her control. But she couldn't imagine living with such seething passion and rage beneath a polite exterior. Rhaenys was just as poisonously sweet as Elia was, if stronger of body. It made Dany feel like a bit of an outsider amongst the women in her family – to forgive slights and not nurse her anger like a weapon.

Sighing aloud, Dany sucked a delicate lip as she held open her nephew's letter. It was less a letter from Aegon specifically so much as both of the siblings on Dragonstone, expressing their excitement at the upcoming nuptials. She tried to picture Dragonstone, and only conjured up foggy memories of black stone, the smell of the sea, and her mother's voice.

Thoughts of marrying her nephew always conjured shame mingled with arousal, and apprehension. It was not that she did not want to marry Aegon - because she did - but entering fully into the world of women seemed to touch on the fear of the unknown. But it also warmed her blood – and she questioned if her nephew-husband would make her feel as good as her own unpracticed self-exploration did, or if Rhaenys would also be there to touch her carnally.

Which just made her squirm in thoughts of shame. Unbounded lust was a sin in the eyes of the Seven, and their bigamous marriage would be even more of an atrocity to the Faith. But Dany knew enough to recognize the feelings that wrapped her when she thought of her marriage bed as arousal.

Dropping the letter back to her bed, Daenerys gave herself on last look over in the mirror, smoothing out a few wrinkles before regally sweeping out into the hallway. Privacy was the rarest of sanctuaries Elia had told her once, and it was rarer in the Red Keep than anywhere else in the realm. So every step, every movement, every blink and smile must be as perfect as Dany could make it.

The scuttling of Ser Tully behind her as the Kingsguard knight almost made her smile in wicked amusement, but she refrained. The riverlord was fair enough as a man, and faithful to his vows. There was no need to unduly torment him. "Do you happen to know where my good-sister would be, Ser Tully?" Dany asked, struggling to reach the solemn tone that Rhaegar seemed to always hit so effortlessly.

"I believe she would be with the King at the moment, for a meeting of the Small Council."

Nodding slowly, Dany changed her direction from Elia's solar to the council chamber. It was not so unusual for her good-sister to sit on the King's council. Both because Rhaegar valued her opinion more than any hearty man should, the ignorant might sneer, but because Elia herself took an almost unwomanly interest in the affairs of the realm.

Descending a stairwell, Daenerys acknowledged her bored looking pseudo-uncle Oberyn with a regal curtsy. Ignoring the wink the saucy Dornishman gave, Dany stepped into the small council's chambers.

Daenerys fumed silently at the vaguely lewd look Maester Marwin gave when she curtsied again, apologizing for the disturbance. Floating over to sit beside her good-sister, Dany spared a moment of amusement at the disgruntled expression that flash over Lord Lannister's face.

It was most unfortunate that the man wasted so much time and energy nursing disapproval over her and Elia's 'unwomanly' occasional presence at small council meetings. Nursing a grudge over something unchangeable seemed pointless.

Dany would be Queen one day, and the Lord of the Rock could hardly gainsay her presence _then_ , could he?

* * *

**Aegon**

Sweat beaded on his brow as Aegon ducked under the stab of his sister's blunted spear. Hefting his own dulled longsword, the Prince of Dragonstone twisted into a backhand swing. Steel shone in the afternoon sunlight as his olive skinned sibling leapt back.

Rhaenys looked only vaguely annoyed as Aegon continued to drive her back, forcing his sister to give ground. His sister had tutored at the knee of the Red Viper, and few could stand against her spearplay when the princess wished to be truly formidable.

Aegon was one of the few. His uncle had taught him as well to have passing familiarity with the spear, even if the Prince took to the sword far better than he had to the spear. And as unfair as it was, while Aegon could practice freely and often against men skilled with different weapons, Aegon himself was the only warrior on Dragonstone willing to meet his sister in the field and honestly test her.

It was just one of the many things Rhaenys spat fire at through the years. Not that he could complain all that much about her spirit, Aegon considered dreamily. If not for the constantly stoked fury at her restrictions, he doubted his sister would be such a passionate lover.

A jarring club to the gut that drove the wind from him was the price Aegon paid for his distraction.

"Come brother!" Rhaenys laughed, dancing back away. Sweat plastered the young woman's dark strands to her face. "I thought you were going to win the battle today?"

Striving to close the distance, Aegon laid a blow with the flat of his blade that would surely bruise later. Sparks glinted in his sister's purple eyes, and the Prince almost groaned at the flash of lust that automatically accompanied it. Sometimes, when the mood struck her, Rhaenys _enjoyed_ pain.

Aegon, without exception, always lost those bouts.

Rhaenys' spear clattered as it dropped to the ground and the princess dove in close. Unencumbered by the weight of her weapon, his sister easily dodged his hurried and clumsy stab. Steel pressed into his stomach as his sister 'killed' him with her swiftly drawn training dagger.

"I win." Was breathed in his ear, Rhaenys' tongue darting out to lick the lobe while her free hand fondled over his genitals through the thin practice leathers. Then she pulled back, any trace of lust vanishing from her face as she screwed her expression into innocent mock thought.

Aegon groaned as he sheathed his blunted blade. The Prince was already nodding along, more than accustomed to Rhaenys' typical terms on winning their practice wager. Obeying a single command without question had been used rarely for the sake of amusement or for carnal enjoyment – especially on Aegon's part.

Rhaenys just preferred to order him to perform all her duties for a full day. "Oh." His sister breathed lowly as she leaned back in, brushing a carefree hand through his sweaty locks. "And come to my room and _fuck_ me tonight."

Smiling as she leant back, Rhaenys spared a heated glance for the obvious hardness between her brother's legs before she drifted off. There was an exaggerated limp to her step, and Aegon shook his head ruefully at his sister's retreating figure. Rhaenys would be looking for something rough in the night.

Squinting up at the noonday sun, Aegon made his own way off the practice field. Stripping the leathers from his flesh in a hurry, Aegon took the bucket a hovering manservant offered him and promptly dumped the chilled water over his naked flesh.

Aegon shivered as he hastily toweled the moisture away, pulling on worn but fine dark wool before he wandered off to the kitchens in search of a quick lunch. If the morning bout with Rhaenys hadn't lasted as long as it had, Aegon would have retreated to his rooms for a proper cleaning and fine clothes to wear to a public meal with his councillors.

As it was, the Targaryen prince was simply too ravenous to bother waiting. The cooks were used to him coming and going at odd hours, depending on the day, and wouldn't bat an eyelash at finding him some bread and a few hunks of cheese to eat.

Waving silently at the rather corpulent cook hunched over a boiling pot, Aegon turned to nick a ready basket of bread and a plate of cheese. Tucking a few apples in amongst the bread, the Prince spared a beatific smile for the cook. The matronly woman coloured slightly, before waving him off with a laugh.

Aegon dodged back through the halls, arms laden with food as he swiftly hurried up to Rhaenys' chambers.

The door swung inward at his kick, Rhaenys eying him with an amused expression. "Couldn't wait to get your hands on me, brother?" Indigo eyes darted down to the bounty of food before she pulled him inside.

"Later." Aegon promised, and meant it. His purple gaze followed Rhaenys when she stripped the sweaty practice leather from her body before sitting opposite him at the small table in the corner of her chambers, shamelessly naked. As much as he enjoyed the sight of her dusky skin and the taut muscles of her lithe abdomen, he _did_ have duties to be done. And her duties to be done, since he'd had to go and get distracted.

Nibbling at the corner of a slice of cheese, Rhaenys hummed noncommittally before pouring them each a goblet of Dornish sour. "I suppose. Duty, duty, duty. How droll."

"It is droll." Aegon agreed, breaking a loaf of bread in half and handing her the other. "But it needs be done. I'll be King one day, and you a Queen. Such is the lot of the rest of our days."

"Queen along with Aunt Dany." Rhaenys smiled lasciviously, and Aegon didn't even have to ask to know the lewd contents of her mind.

"Do you ever _stop_?"

Rhaenys laughed, eyes half lidded as her bare foot came to stroke over his cock in his trousers. "Never, brother dearest. Never."

* * *

**Theon**

Theon clenched his jaw as he strode past his father, ignoring the contemptuous expression on the older Greyjoy's face. Years of neglect and built up misunderstands, and the young Kraken was so far beyond giving a fuck what Balon Greyjoy thought.

There were only so many times that Theon could lean back and listen to his father rant. Cursing Theon for being too soft and weak to be his true son. Raging that because Theon didn't obtain his every desire by force and rape that he wasn't Ironborn enough to hold the blood of the Grey King in his veins.

Placing a guiding hand over the cool stone wall, Theon followed the spiraling stair up to his grandfather's study. Quellon seemed to prefer to remain at the top of his tower for most of his days, the old man's slowly fading eyes staring out over the grey islands he'd striven so hard to change.

It seemed a doomed effort. The recently freed thralls and salt wives supported old Quellon well enough, and the watching presence of the dragon king's soldiers kept the peace. But it was the peace of a slow simmering kettle, growing ever more ready to boil.

There was too much of the Old Way bred into the Islands for them to change so easily. The most treasonous agitators were given to the God, but Quellon could hardly silence everyone. Over generations, the viciousness of the Ironborn might have been tamed into the more civil ferocity of the most Northern of the First Men.

But Balon would follow Quellon, and Rodrik would follow Balon, and the grey stone would run red with blood and iron.

"Hello grandfather." Theon greeted as he slid into the Lord of Pyke's study. Quellon's wrinkled face lit up in greeting, and the unabashed affection in the old lord's face sent warmth filial thrums through Theon's own veins. _'I would wish this man for a father, rather than the one I have.'_ The younger Greyjoy thought, not for the first time.

"Theon." Thin hands beckoned him closer, and Theon shuffled into the nearest chair to his grandfather. Small, wrinkled hands he realized, for all the strength they'd once had. The bones jutting up from Quellon's old, thin skin looked more like the bones of a bird than those of a man. "How goes it, Rock of my Rock?"

Theon repressed a grimace. Only his mother's elderly brother spoke to him with such a diminutive child's nickname. The Reader seemed half-convinced that his nephew was still the child of his memory, when the Lord of Harlaw could be bothered to pull his nose from his books at all. Quellon did it simply to annoy him, the young Kraken decided at the familiar smirk tugging his grandfather's lips. "Well enough."

Quellon nodded absently, a fond smile on his face before he launched into further questions. They all seemed innocuous enough, at first. Theon answered the Lord of the Iron Islands as best he could. Some of the responses were simple enough – the health of his crew, the prices of fish at market, the currents to the West and the coldness of the sea spray.

Others were stranger, and it seemed his grandfather's thought turned to the welfare of those he had not met in many a year. Innkeeps who had not seen Quellon in since the old lord became too frail for extended travels. Young lordlings and captains from nearby isles that Theon met only the seas. Sailors that returned from the bizarre corners of Essos but once a season.

Foreboding built slowly in Theon's veins, until he could bear it no longer and held a hand up for silence. "Grandfather." Theon spoke haltingly, black eyes glinting suspiciously. "Do you look to the fathomless deeps?"

"What is dead may never die." Quellon responded with all the air of one speaking by rote, before the lines of his face sagged with weariness and age. "But aye grandson, I look to the Halls. I am not long for this world. A turn of the season perhaps, and then the sea will bear me away."

Theon's lips were drawn and tight on his pale face as he turned to stare into the heaving coals of the study's grate. "Then why are you speaking to me about it? Shouldn't you be spending your time with your heir?"

Quellon laughed, not angry and bitter but fond. "Oh Theon, you are my heir. My blood runs truest in you. Balon clings to all the ignorance of our forefathers. Victarion is little more than a dutiful simpleton. Aeron is more than half mad. Euron..." here Quellon's eyes shone with an old, old shame. "I have no understanding of where I went so wrong with that boy."

"But you!" Sudden emotion blazed in that old voice, and Theon found himself responding to it. "You are quick and clever, most like me in thought and deed. I would have hope if you were Balon's eldest, rather than having those brutes of his your elders. Asha is better than them, but still too wrapped in her pride and set in her ways."

"You underestimate her grandfather." Theon sighed, thinking of quick smiles in the dark and the redness of her maidenhood on his cock when they were little more than children. "Everyone always does."

"Perhaps." Quellon agreed, chipped nails combing through his grey beard. "If you have faith in her, perhaps you might take her with you."

"Take her with me?" Theon queried, now utterly lost to the strange fey temper of his grandfather. A warm old hand covered his, and Theon gave his grandfather a disturbed frown.

"My truest son, you are still so young. Ironborn may not shed the blood of Ironborn, but my eldest living son doesn't see you as one of us. You know this."

Theon yanked his hand back, stung. "So what, you're saying he's so ashamed of me that he'd become a kinslayer?"

"Does Balon consider you any kin of his?"

There was no reply that Theon could have made to that beside a quiet 'No' that wouldn't have tasted like a lie. So the young Greyjoy said nothing at all.

"I have quietly arranged a ship in your name, Theon. It's a large vessel, sturdily built, and crewed by men loyal to me – and thus you." Quellon sighed, old and drawn and defeated. "I urge you to flee – to find a greater destiny than that which your father and brothers would offer you here, before it is too late. Take your sister with you, if you think you can trust her."

Fisting his hands until his knuckles turned white from the loss of blood, Theon turned away. Long memory and apprehension hung thick on him until Theon wondered if he might choke beneath the weight of it.

' _No son of mine!'_

' _Too much greenlander in you.'_

' _The Grey King's blood runs thin, I see.'_

' _You have too much faith in the blasphemies of my father, and not enough in the glory of the God.'_

"Yes." Theon growled after a moment, his voice strange and foreign to his own ears. "I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, this is the image of Aegon the Conqueror I'm working with for the purpose of this story - or basically, the inspiration for Aegon VI's appearance in my own mind.
> 
> [](http://imgur.com/robkrqB)  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**The Queen of Thorns**

Dragging her tongue over the soft curve of her toothless gums, the Queen of Thorns tightened her bony hands around the head of her cane and hobbled into her grandson's study. Olenna refused to consider it as either Luthor's or Mace's, since she sometimes wondered if her dead oaf of a husband or puffed up oaf of a son had any actual use for the written word.

Alerie – the silly girl – must have greater brains between her ears than one would think to look at, if she'd managed to produce two intelligent children and two passably smart ones. Garlan and Loras at least had enough political instinct to survive, even if the younger brother was a fop and a poof besides.

As for dear Willas and little Margaery – well, between the two of them, they might manage to warm the crusty cockles of an old woman's heart. If only Margaery would cease mooning about and actually use her brains to get ahead in life, the girl might even have something to be proud of.

"Hello grandmother."

Peering over at her granddaughter with a rheumy gaze, Olenna repressed a smirk of approval. Hovering by the hearth in an impeccable Myrish green gown, not a hair out of place, and with a suitably charming false smile, Margaery was at the least doing her job to contain her eternal discontent.

"Hello to you too, Little Rose."

Olenna chuffed under her breath at the impatient boot-tapping Mace was giving. The oaf had forgotten the manners and patience she'd tried to beat into him over her knee. Alas, little use to weep over spilt milk. Sinking onto the settee beside Willas, the Tyrell widow spared a disproving cluck for the ungainly sprawl her cripple grandson had adopted before glaring at her son with a scowl.

"Out with it, Mace. I might be too old to take you over my knee, but I'm not too old to give you a good scolding."

The Lord of Highgarden sputtered, great jowls turning red around the salt and pepper of his triangular beard. Resigned amusement crossed Margaery's delicate features even as Mace subsided from his instinctive blustering with a long-suffering expression.

"I'm not playing your game, Mother. Now," Crinkling a folded slip of parchment in a meaty fist, Mace tossed the message into the low flames of the study's hearth. "It's seems _His Grace_ wants to invite us to the ' _Joyous Nuptials_ ' of his brother and his son." Even in the privacy of Highgarden, the Tyrell Lord was at least self-aware enough to be aware negative comments and insinuations of treason might reach the ears of a spying servant.

Which was not all that great of an achievement considering his mother was the Queen of Thorns.

"And you decided to call us all here to tell us _that_?" Olenna raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Loras shifted with a rustle of silk behind her, and she did her best to refrain from scolding the boy. Some control and sensibility over those 'wild passions' of his would do Loras a world of good.

Mace blinked slowly, shuffling the papers over the desk with poorly hidden discomfort, and Olenna found herself barely containing an amused cackle. Decades as the Lord of the Reach and her boy still couldn't quite muster up the marbles to make the big decisions without her input.

"Let's just cut the chaff, Mace." She decided after a beat, turning away from whatever blustering her son would decide to muster up in order to convince himself that he was the _real_ power in Highgarden. "I'll never agree with the foolishness after the war of your Splendid Isolation. It kept us out of favor and alliances for too long. But right now we can step back up as relatively new players."

Willas rubbed his stiff leg in the corner of her eye, preparing for a few twinges of pain as the heir to Highgarden leaned forward to reinforce his grandmother's point. "Highgarden has been out of the game so long that we're a clean slate. A significant amount of wealth and power, without any notable ties or obligations to anyone. _Think_ , Father. We could have a Tyrell on the Small Council. Several heirs to other Great Houses have just come of age or soon will be. The opportunity is in our hands"

By the glint of pure avarice in Mace's eyes, Olenna knew that the boy was hooked. "I suppose." Mace began lowly, stroking his dyed beard with a thoughtful expression. "Jon Arryn is getting on enough to croak any day now, and old Tywin can't be all that far behind. It would only be sensible to look to a House as powerful and prestigious as ours to take a seat on the council. Or even be Hand..."

"Indeed." Willas smiled disarmingly at his father. Her eldest grandson had always been skilled at leading his puffed-up father to whatever conclusion Willas wanted him to reach. Only Loras did better, though that had less to do with skill and more to do with how Mace doted on the Knight of Flowers. "Old age will create a vacancy in power – a vacancy we can occupy for the greater glory of House Tyrell. In fact, if we play our cards right, there may even be a royal match in the future for one of my children."

The mention of possible relations with royalty visibly excited the Lord Paramount of the Reach. The wide grin and hearty sound of laughter that erupted from Mace Tyrell softened the aged obesity of Olenna's eldest son, showcasing just a hint of the rugged handsomeness that had been stamped all over the boy's face when he'd been younger.

"Well wouldn't that just something?"

None of the schemers in the room mentioned the possibility of Margaery's betrothal outside the Reach. For the only thing that topped Mace's obsession with tying their never-royal House with royal bloodlines was the middle-aged man's determination to keep the Rose of Highgarden within the Reach.

* * *

**Quellon**

Smiling down faintly at the last mouthful of of sparkling white wine from the vineyards of Lys, Quellon Greyjoy brought the bottle to his lips and swallowed deeply. Theon was gone from Pyke, with Asha at his side. Which meant that Balon would soon be storming into his study in a black rage.

The crack of wood on stone shattered the blissful silence of the room, and the Lord of the Iron Islands smiled with bitter humour. A predictable brute his elder son was.

"How dare you." Balon seethed, voice low and dangerous. There was none of the middle-aged Greyjoy's typical dramatic flair in his voice. No mummer's farce of glory and reaving. Simply the rough tones of a vengeful man.

Sighing, Quellon dropped the freshly emptied wine bottle from the open window and watched as the stained green glass fell out of sight. "What do you want, Balon?" the Lord of Pyke asked coldly, imperious and demanding despite knowing exactly what his heir had on his mind.

The Seven Gods of the Greenland Andals urged parents to love their children and for children to revere their parents. And for years Quellon had _tried_. Tried to love his sons. Tried to teach the boys to be decent men that would respect their elders, support one another, and acknowledge that the Old Ways needed to be changed.

Quellon had failed on all accounts. Balon was a bloodthirsty fool that hated his own father and lusted to reave as if they still lived in the dark days of the Hundred Kingdoms where war was the first recourse rather than the last. Aeron was an addled priest that routinely tried to drown men deemed of insufficient faith in the Drowned God. Victarion was dutiful at least, but still a murdering brute. And the less said of Euron Crow-Eye, the better.

How could Quellon have loved sons like that?

"You _dare_ to send my children off without consulting me? It is bad enough that you've corrupted Theon and made him a pathetic greenlander cunt, but now you've decided to steal my only daughter as well?"

"I dare." Dark eyes flashed as Quellon turned away from the window, drawing himself up to his full six and a half feet and staring down at his shorter son. Aged and wrinkled as he was, with sickness hollowing out the pockets of his cheeks and drawing back the coal orbs of his eyes into his skull, the Lord of Pyke still possessed a fearsome aspect. Fierce enough to make even Balon unwillingly draw back at the blazing disappointment and command contained his Quellon's face.

Even a week past Quellon would not have dared. But he was old and near the last rattling breath of his lungs. Death haunted his steps, and with his chosen heir safe from the Iron Islands Quellon had little to lose. "I _dare_." the Lord rasped lowly, skeletal features tightening. "Theon is my heir. Only Theon of all my descendents had the will and wisdom to listen to what I would teach him, and if I didn't think you'd kill your own son and become a kinslayer, I would have written to the king and had him named the next Lord long ago."

"But I know what kind of man you are, Balon. So I've sent him away to make his own fortune in the world, safe from you and your ilk. And if Asha was willing to follow and learn from him, perhaps there is more hope for that girl than I thought. That is my final world, and you are not Lord of these Islands yet."

" _Yet_." Balon glowered, his own dark orbs turning violent and malicious. The Heir to the Iron Islands was not a young man by any means, but he was decades younger than his aged father and there was still a wiry strength in his limbs. Stepping up to the taller Quellon, Balon bared his teeth. "And if you don't want the day when I take the Lordship of these Islands from your cold, dead hands to come sooner old man, you better watch your step."

With a whirl of his dark cloak, Balon was gone, leaving Quellon to sag down into his notched wooden armchair with a scowl.

The same morality that led Quellon to stamp out slavery and salt wives on the Iron Islands was the same morality that would prevent Quellon from murdering his own kin. The morality that Quellon had passed down to Theon – iron and unyielding and stern, but _good_. Which unfortunately meant Balon would be Lord after Quellon, and Rodrik would be Lord after Balon, and the Iron Islands would become a haven of slavery, piracy, and gratuitous violence once more.

War was coming. Quellon could feel it in his bones, just as he had when he'd heard of Aerys Targaryen burning men alive for sport in King's Landing.

Settling his elbows over the cobbled driftwood surface of his desk, Quellon heaved a great sigh and lowered his face into his hands. War was coming, and Theon was out of the ever smaller shield of protection his grandfather could offer him.

Quellon Greyjoy was a man of salt and iron. Many a man had fallen before his axe when Quellon had been younger and more willing to sing the song of the Drowned God. A song of violence and victory and conquest on his lips as he pillaged foreign ships in the Narrow Sea and along the shores of Essos. But it was not to the Drowned God of his warrior fathers that the Lord of the Iron Islands turned his attention to. It was to the dusty memories of his quest third and last wife – little Shella Piper of the greenlands and the Andals.

_Father Above, grant him temperance and the will to act justly._

_Mother Above, grant him mercy in his times of struggle._

_Warrior, grant strength to his arm in conflict._

_Maiden, protect his good heart and sense of righteousness._

_Smith, offer him skill and luck in all his labors._

_Crone, guide him through brightest dawn and darkest night._

_Stranger, stay your hand._

_Theon. My boy._

* * *

**Robert**

"Come on, come on, don't dawdle!" Robert's deep voice bellowed over the bustling hubbub. The Lord of Storm's End impatiently motioned a constantly bowing young pig farmer into the courtyard with a roll of his eyes. "Make sure to stock the larders boy, we've got the coin for it!"

Sending eager glances at the horizon for the first glimpse of a ship, the dark-haired Lord shoved a fistful of gold dragons into the pimple-face farmer's hands and gave a giggling maid a teasing swat to her bottom for good measure. "Seven Hells Ned, I'm getting older every minute just waiting for you to get your frozen arse down here." Robert complained beneath his breath.

The northern horizon was still empty, and sending a final scowl at it, Robert wandered back into the keep. Cersei would be greeting all the different noble buggers that were scrambling to be part of Joffrey's wedding, which meant according to his wife Robert had best keep out of sight and out of mind.

Whatever. The Lord Baratheon was used enough to it. The only thing that bothered the black-haired man was not being able to take the time for a fuck. Ned's ship was supposed to show up at any minute, and while Robert missed the feel of a sweet cunt he missed his adopted brother more. It had been years since he'd seen Ned's frozen face – too long, really.

"Lord Robert!" was shouted over the bustling of bodies rushing to get the wedding ready. "Lord Baratheon!"

Spinning about to locate the faint voice, Robert pushed through the crowd. "Oi, what's got your knickers in a bunch Cressan?"

The maester bowed deeply, the wrinkles of his face shaking slightly and making Robert roll his stormy blue eyes. "Enough of that." the Storm Lord boomed, pushing up at the maester's shoulder and forcing the elderly man to straighten. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you - you don't need to kiss my arse every time you want to talk to me."

Smiling fondly at the dark haired man he'd helped to raise, Cressan ignored the old argument in favor of the news he'd brought. "The scouts have spotted Targaryen banners on the horizon my lord. Where would you like us to lodge them?"

Robert rolled his eyes. "Which of the royal buggers is it this time? Ah well, doesn't matter. Just stuff 'em all in Elenei's Tower. Maybe they'll get a kick out of playing the harp and staring at the sea all day."

Cressan pinched his nose with an expression of exasperation. "Robert, I don't know how many times I've told you my boy, you can't call your cousins 'royal buggers'. It's unseemly."

"Piss on that!" Robert snorted. "Worst thing anyone will do is complain, and I don't give a shit. Tis not like Rhaegar and his lot are doing weekly burnings. Let 'em in, and send them a few caskets of ale. Maybe it'll loosen 'em up."

"As you say, my lord." Cressan sighed. "I will ensure Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys are well stocked with ale."

"Good man." Robert clapped a meaty hand to the elderly maester's shoulder, turning away and glaring out over the bustling courtyard. "Where the hell in Ned? Or even Jon – I thought he was supposed to make it down here too."

"The Hand of the King arrived half a candlemark ago, my lord." Cressan offered, straightened the linked chain around his throat absently. "We've already had him given lodgings in Durran's Tower. As for your royal visitors – Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys have come down from Dragonstone to attend your wedding."

Cocking a midnight dark brow, Robert threw a glance over his shoulder at the Maester with half a smirk. "Those two? Even I've heard about the way they've been going at it up on the shitstained rock. At least the boy's got more than water in his veins. Remind me to invite him for a drink later, would you?"

"I...yes." Cressan lied through his teeth, having no intention of giving the uncouth Lord of Storm's End a chance to intoxicate his young distant cousins and start a conflict with the crown over something as stupid as a drunken fist-fight. "Excuse me, Lord Robert – I need to... tend the ravens."

Waving off the elderly scholar with a dismissive hand, Robert spun on his heel and pushed back into the crowd. "Come on, come on! We're behind schedule boys! If Ned and my boy get here and everything still isn't finished up, I'll cut your pay in half! And if you get it done before they get here," Robert considered for a moment, eyeing a middle aged man bustle by with an armful of thick incense candles. "I'll send some coin down to the Dornish Flower and let you men enjoy some fine young cunt!"

"Aye!" Echoed back to Robert, making the Lord smirk toothily. That should get things moving along. Beside the last minute perparations, Cersei was handling it all as far as Robert knew. And while his Lannister wife was strong willed in an 'unseemly way' - according to the Septon – the dark haired man trusted her. Tommen and Myrcella would have been cleaned and properly dressed hours past. The proper courtesies would be afforded to the noble guests by Cersei. The Sept had been scrubbed from top-to-bottom a few days past...

Everything should be in order. Robert hadn't even needed to nag Cersei into cleaning a floor in Orys' tower for Ned and his family. The only thing left to do was have the courtyard properly prepared – which Robert had spent the last two candlemarks working on – and for Ned, Joff, and the rest of the Starks to actually show up for the wedding.

Reaching out, Robert seized an idle Stormlander guard by the shoulder and gave the brown bearded man a faint shake. "I'm heading down to the docks to wait for Ned. Let my lady wife know where I've gone, and remind her to set out the Dornish strongwine in my solar would you?"

"Aye sir." the guard saluted, the deep black enamel of his polished armor shining beneath the morning sun.

* * *

**Arianne**

Oberyn's letters had warned her, but the reality of King's Landing didn't truly hit the heiress to Sunspear until she took the first step onto the docks that jutted out into the Blackwater. The very air stunk of filth and rot, hitting her in the face like a wave.

If not for the fact that the Blackwater had been named so before Aegon's Conquest, Arianne would have assumed it was named for the shit and garbage that undoubtedly poured into it from the unsightly sprawl of Aegon's city.

"Ugh." Arianne frowned, resisting the urge to reach up and pinch her pert nose. "I would complain about it, but no doubt no matter what I say you've already thought it." Daemon's sarcastic scoff reached her ear over the low roar of men embarking and disembarking from ships along the docks.

"No matter." the Dornishwoman decided, sending a gelid glare towards the beaten and weatherstained Mud Gate. "Order a carriage. I refuse to have the refuse of this city squishing up between my toes. Mother Rhoyne only knows how Aunt Elia managed to live her for the past two decades."

Daemon growled audibly in irritation, but her bastard lover did obey and leave her side – pushing into the milling crowd of fisherfolk and other commoners.

Snapping her fingers impatiently, Arianne summoned one of her mail and silk clad soldiers from his place in the ring of protection her guard formed to keep the commoners back and away from the noblewoman. "You. Go below-deck and retrieve the gifts for my Aunt and Uncle. I'm told my cousins are out of the city to attend that Stag's wedding, but we'll still need to pay homage."

The guardsman saluted. "Yes, my lady."

The Heiress to Sunspear paid no further mind to the man as he bowed and rushed back up the gangplank. Keeping a dark eye out for the sight of Daemon coming back through the crowd with news of a carriage, Arianne rubbed the tip of one of her curled ringlets between her fingers. The Tyroshi oil her mother had gifted her for her last name day seemed to have some poor results. Best to switch back to the Lysene...

"They're waiting for us on the other side of the Mud Gate." Daemon broke in, handsome features drawn into a dimpled smile. "It'll be an afternoon ride up River Row to the Red Keep apparently. You'll arrive just in time to disturb the King's supper."

"Lovely." Arianne drawled, stepping on the toe of her lover's boot with a heel. "Would you care to lead me then, dear Daemon?" Fluttering her eyelashes seductively at the Bastard of Godsgrace, the Heiress to Sunspear chuckled inwardly at the faint red hue that splashed along Daemon's cheekbones.

No matter how old he got, at heart Daemon seemed to remain that silly little boy that took her maidenhead and had the foolish romantic gall to ask her father for her hand.

Settling her hand in the crook of Daemon's elbow, Arianne hiked up the hem of her orange Dornish silk dress and followed her lover through the crowd. Several men leered at the Dorishwoman, earning deadly sky-blue glares from Daemon.

"Just leave it Daemon." She ordered with exasperated fondness, her golden sun amulet rising with every breath along with her plunging neckline. "If I didn't want to be stared at, I would have dressed like a Septa. There's no need to get so worked up about everything."

Daemon Sand deflated like a punctured sack of wine, wilting beneath her amusement as he led her to the carriage he'd ordered for her. Fine white paint marked by swirling engraved roses stood out like a sore thumb amongst the common dirt and roughness of the lower reaches of King's Landing.

"How very Tyrell of you." Arianne mused, allowing her bastard lover to help her up into the carriage and motioning her guards to form up around with an imperious flick of her fingers. "Are you sure that we should be calling you the Bastard of Godsgrace and not the Bastard of Highgarden?"

The put out expression on Daemon's chiseled features lasted until the door to the wheelhouse closed and the carriage lurched into motion with the snap of a whip, being replaced by a sharp frown. "Speaking of Tyrells – it appears that the Fat Flower and all his brood have decided to descend on the city for our cousin's wedding. Greenhand Hall is full of roses and their other sycophants."

Arianne's lips pulled back into a sneer. The Reachmen never seemed to be able to stay where they belonged – tilling the dirt and leaving governance to their betters.

 _Why_ Daeron the Second decided to build and then gift Nymeros Villa to House Martell when it was directly across the way from the Tyrell's Greenhand Hall was beyond Arianne. It was almost like the King had wanted blood and duels in the streets. Then again, given that the gift had come from a _Targaryen_ , Arianne wouldn't be surprised if blood to satisfy hidden malicious urges had been Daeron's goal anyway.

At least the grounds allotted to their family manse on Aegon's High Hill were beautiful and well-maintained, if her father was to be believed.

"We'll have to remain watchful, but do nothing." The Dornishwoman decided sourly after a moment of thought. If the Tyrells had finally ended their temper tantrum and left self-exile, they would have done it at the King's order or with some grand scheme in mind. And how much Arianne disdained the Reachmen, even she couldn't deny the political acumen of the Queen of Thorns.

A warm hand settled over her knee as Daemon leaned forward with an earnest expression. "I could do some digging if you want."

Arianne dismissed it after a split second. "No, we don't know what they're doing here – but we can't underestimate that Redwyne woman. If you start sticking your nose in, they might decide they need to do away with you. Better to keep our ears to the ground and eyes open without digging too deeply as yet. We'll see if my Aunt has anything to say about them once I meet her."

"You could always meet with the heir. Prince Oberyn always spoke highly of him when I was squiring for your uncle."

"I think not." Arianne denied scornfully, dark eyes flashing with heat. "The Crippled Rose might be better than the rest of them, if Uncle's letters are to believed. But he's still a fucking Tyrell."

* * *

**Theon**

The Arbor gold swirled down Theon's throat in a sweet river, tasting of the fertile valleys and warm sunlight that went into the wine's making. The Greyjoy was blissfully and numbingly drunk – drunker than he'd ever been in his life in honesty, but not drunk enough.

Word had come in when he and Asha made landfall in Oldtown. The Lord of Pyke was dead, found by his 'grieving' son and heir with a broken neck at the bottom of a staircase. What else could be expected the gossips wondered? The Lord had surely been old and weak. The castle at Pyke was built along the spraying waves of the ocean – wet rock and moss in the most inconvenient of places. Just another tragic accident in Westeros ; nothing to see or worry about. Blessing to the newest Lord of the Iron Islands.

Theon knew the truth like he knew the sweet numbness the wines of the Arbor that was filtering into his veins. An inconvenient suspicion Asha would have named it. Justified paranoia in the Game of Thrones, his deceased grandfather would have acknowledged.

_Balon Greyjoy – the fucking kinslayer._

Hammering down another goblet of Gold Arbor, Theon slammed another gold dragon down on the table. "Another!" the brunette slurred at a passing tavern wench, catching her attention over the noise and heat of crowded drunk bodies.

Another goblet found its way into Theon's hand, bronze surface dully reflecting splinters of firelight from the low burning hearth. Gulping down the sweet wine, the Greyjoy fumbled for more coin and more drunk.

"Enough." A pair of calloused hands seized his and twisted Theon's numb fingers until the pain registered over the drunken haze of his senses. Asha scowled down at him, giving one final painful twist before letting go. "You've had your fill. Enough moping. Up you get."

"But Asha - ow ow ow!"

Yanking her brother up by the ear, Asha frowned with annoyance before shoving Theon out the door and into the darkened streets. As far as Balon's only daughter was concerned, Theon's mourning was unmanly. They were Ironborn – they didn't sit around and weep when the Storm God took a great shit on them.

Ironborn got mad, and then they got even. Which was exactly what Asha told Theon as she threw the drunk's arm over her shoulder and helped him walk upright.

"What's your angle?" Theon muttered suspiciously, blinking thickly as he took careful steps over the slick boards of Oldtown's wharf. _Nagga's Bite_ was moored at the very end, the ship's sleek sides rocking with the faint motion of the waves.

The siblings moved up the gangplank, Asha smirking at the amused looks Theon – their captain by Quellon's orders – got from the skeleton crew on the night watch. "Nothing unusual to see here boys." she grinned, setting the Ironborn sailors at ease before pushing her brother through the door to his cabin.

Kicking the door shut behind them, Asha dropped Theon on the floor like a sack of potatoes. "I don't have an angle." the woman shrugged, kicking off her knee-high boots and padding barefoot across the cabin. "I'm just along for the fighting and the fucking. If you want to turn around and break the God's law, fine by me. We're both going to some Hell anyway."

Theon groaned, pushing himself up and heaving his numbed body into a sitting position against the wall. A large part of him wanted to be angry – to hate his sister for her general ambivalence towards their grandfather's death. But the rest of him knew that her apathy was exactly what he should have expected. Asha had respected Quellon's strength and mind, but they had never been very close. Not like she was with Theon himself or even the Reader.

"You know, if you keep spending all your time in here people are going to eventually suspect something." Theon offered to the empty air, trying to marshal his thoughts.

Snorting, Asha flopped down on Theon's bunk and crossed her feet over each other, eyeing her toenails and deciding they were in need of a trim. "As if. We're not Targaryens. If anything, everyone is going to think you're trying to protect your poor big sister's virtue, like some greenlander cunt."

Balon's third son sighed, brushing a hand through messed brown locks and dropped it. He'd never been all that concerned anyway – Ironborn had little scruples and if they ran away to Essos no one would know Asha was his sister rather than his wife. They could make their way easily enough – they had a ship and trained crew, and piracy was a way of life for dozens of would-be pirate kings. Only a lack of ambition prevented the truly skilled pirates from taking their ill-gotten wealth and spending it more on wenches and wine.

Spending it on things like ships and swords.

The grin that split Theon's mouth was curved with a promise of violence and well-accompanied by the fire in his eyes. "Since I'm going to end up sleeping off the wine until the late afternoon, I'd like you to do something for me."

Humming in disinterest, Asha rolled on her side and looked at her brother only to recoil from the expression of wild hate twisting his features. Her instinctive reaction was to back away from what she knew in her heart would be a reckless road for her brother to take, but Asha steeled her nerves. Theon had always been too green to truly be one of their people. But it seemed like all it took was a death to peel back the softness to reveal the iron underneath.

"Let Baelor know in the morning that we're setting out right away. I hear the Stepstones are an interesting place to be this time of the year."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iron Island Economy – I've based the idea that ending slavery would equal greater prosperity on the real life example of the Roman Republic. You have to remember that slaves are ,well, slaves. They're not being paid. In a real world economy, free men cannot easily compete with slave labor because freemen actually require a wage that covers not just food and clothes, but food and clothes and shelter for their families.
> 
> Reflected on the Iron Islands, which have a strong culture of slavery, it seems obvious to me that we'd have a rich upper class (who have inherited wealth and the slaves and ships that create wealth), and a very impoverished lower class. Anyone that has the money to build a ship or buy the equipment to work on one and take up raiding would do so, growing wealthy from theft and slavery. Those who are born poor are going to mostly remain poor, because they can't mine or fish (because slaves) or take up raiding (no ships, no weapons, and no training).
> 
> Quellon's reforms are very similar to the reforms that Julius Caesar forced through the Senate. By limiting (or ending in Quellon's case) the use of slave labor in the native industries of the Iron Islands, he forces the Lords who have the feudal right to fish/mine to pay free men a wage at fair market value.
> 
> Culture Clash – I played on this some when I had Robb be uncomfortable with the Sept in the North and when I discussed the different sexuality of Dorne versus everyone else, but that was before I realized just how large Westeros is. It's the size of South America. Which means that cultural differences should actually be quite large. Different accents, different dresses, different foods, different religions, different moral standards, and of course more animosity between regions. I tried to play this up with Arianne's POV and her (typically Dornish) view that Reachmen are all idiot dirtgrubbers, and I'll continue to do so.


	6. Chapter 6

**Eddard**

The journey from Winterfell to Storm's End had been long, and every day the Warden of the North found himself staring into the horizon as if he could peer through sea and land across leagues and lay grey eyes on the sprawling walls of his home. Starks belonged in the North, beneath the crimson leaves of the weirwood and the where the blood of the First Men ran thick.

Here is the South, his Gods had no eyes.

Ned wanted to turn back and go home. Turn away from the too-warmth South and the cities full of schemers and godless men. He wanted to take Sansa home and keep all of his children by his side until he and Cat grew old and were buried in the crypts at Winterfell. But Eddard Stark had given his word to escort his daughter to the South, and to give her hand in marriage to a Southron Lord and possibly never see her again.

So with a heavy heart Ned stepped down the plank and let Robert tackle him with all the eagerness of a young pup.

"Ned!" The Stag Lord boomed with laughter, hugging his childhood friend with such force that Eddard was lifted right off his feet while his ribs creaked. "What's it been now, four years? Five years? Too damn long either way."

Robert dropped Ned back to the ground and turned to give Cat an exuberant grin when she disembarked. "Cat! Look at you, you haven't aged a day."

Offering a much more subdued "My Lord.", the redhead favoured Robert with an incline of her head. Then Catelyn stepped out of the way and let Joffrey charge on through to meet his father in a crash of limbs and bellowed greetings.

Ned's lip faintly curled up in amusement. If there was one thing that could be said about Baratheon men, it was that they certainly knew how to make a scene. Years as boys together in the Vale had conditioned Ned for it, but Robb and Cat were looking increasingly lost as Joffrey and his father grew louder and louder.

With a final exchange of chuckles, Robert and Joffrey broke apart to favour the Stark family with identical grins. The Lord of Storm's End settled storm blue eyes on his son's betrothed, and stepped forward with wink. "You must be Sansa."

"My Lord." Sansa greeted Robert demurely, allowing his future good-father to press a kiss to her knuckles.

Robert's focus shifted to the other Stark child. "And you must be Robb." Grasping the Stark heir's forearm in greeting. "You've got a good grip lad."

Robb only grinned wolfishly in reply.

"Enough with the pleasantries." Robert clapped a hand to Ned's shoulder. "Let's get you settled."

"Aye," Eddard agreed, leaving the Stark retinue behind to unload their belongings as he fell into step beside the man he had always considered a brother. "How is Cersei?" the Warden of the North cut the silence as they trudged up the winding cliffs to Storm's End.

"Well enough." Robert grunted, reaching up to run a hand over his clean shaven jaw. The faint sound of mutters could be heard over the crashing of the sea as Robb and Joffrey struck up a conversation behind them. "I have half a mind to have more babes, but she's been as hard as Valyrian steel about taking her moon tea."

Humming in comprehension, Ned undid the highest button of his doublet. The heat of the South took its pound of flesh after living for near two decades in the North.

"If I didn't think she'd cut my cock off for it, I'd offer a betrothal between your lad there and my Cella." The skin around the black haired man's eyes crinkled as he laughed. "She almost did when I sent Joff off to foster, and she knew he'd be coming back in a few years anyway."

"Cat is the same." Ned commiserated, smiling fondly at the thought of his redhaired wife. "But she's had years to come to terms with Sansa marrying into the South, and she knows the importance of our children marrying well. Give Cersei time, and the head should overrule the heart. Eventually."

Snorting, Robert took the final step up to the gates of Storm's End. "If you can think that, you don't know much about Cersei. She's a good woman, but more stubborn than a herd of goats. No matter how much I complain about it, she won't stop coddling the children. At this point the only thing Tommen will be doing is wearing a Septon's robes or forging a chain in Oldtown."

"I see."

"Tommen's a good boy, but he's the softest lad I've ever met. He loves kittens and sweets and is useless with a sword in his hand. I'd sooner cut my balls off than send him to a battlefield."

"Not every lord can claim to be a martial genius." Ned offered after a moment. "Just look at Mace Tyrell."

The boom of Robert's laughter startled a passing maid as they entered the keep. "Tommen might be useless with a sword, but at least he's not soft in the head like the Fat Flower. Father forbid." Blue eyes tracked the last minute bustle of wedding preparations. "No. I'll send the lad to the Faith or to Oldtown. He'd thank me for it. I've got plenty of sons already, and if something ever happened to Joff there's still Stannis."

Drawing his brows together in thought as Robert finally led the Stark party to their assigned rooms, Ned frowned. "Stannis is unmarried, and not likely at all to have any natural children, if what I've heard is true."

"If it came down to it, my brother would grit his teeth, get married and do his duty." Shrugging, Robert threw open the door. "But enough of that. We've got a wedding to get ready for."

* * *

**The Red Viper**

Oberyn swore beneath his breath as he caught his good-brother's shaking form and lowered Rhaegar onto the king's bed. It was a bit of a blessing that Elia was elsewhere in the Red Keep with Ellaria – his sister never enjoyed seeing her husband in pain. And with the Tears of Lys running through his veins, no doubt that Rhaegar was in blazing agony.

The generations of Targaryen incest had strengthened the Valyrian blood in Rhaegar, but it wouldn't surprise the Red Viper if that same incest had weakened Rhaegar's natural resistance to poison. Whenever it was time for Oberyn's good-brother to take another dose of poison to increase his body's resistance to toxins, Rhaegar always sickened for longer and in greater pain than anyone else in their mish-mashed family. Even Elia wasn't given as much pain when the poison burned through her. Rhaella had been weak in body, and Aerys had been weak in mind. Rhaegar was a good king and a strong warrior, but the silver king must have inherited some weakness from his parents.

Giving small doses of poison to strengthen resistance was common sense as far as Oberyn was concerned. On the surface, he had no quarrel with the idea of dosing his paramour, his sister, his good-brother, his daughters, his nieces and nephews, or himself. But the Red Viper was not a stupid man. Rhaegar's worry over poison was more than natural caution. It was the fear of a man that knows that death may soon try to strike within his home.

The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms was just like Doran however; secretive and always playing the long game. And as much as Oberyn loved his brother and good-brother, he wouldn't deny that they were both fucking frustrating.

Doran and Rhaegar were up to something, and neither of them would tell him what it was. The lack of information only made Oberyn more paranoid, and the more paranoid he was the more the Red Viper was suspicious of everyone and everything. Different scenarios twisted up in the realm of Oberyn's imagination.

Had Varys come to Rhaegar with warnings of an assassination contract? Were Rhaegar and Doran preparing to do something foolish and provoke powerful enemies into trying to kill them? Was a rebellion imminent? Was Westeros going to commit armies to a war with the Summer Islands for the sake of that fool Jalabhar Xho?

The worries cycled fiercer and fiercer every day until Oberyn found himself watching everyone with a jaundiced eye. When a lion-emblazoned letter came for Tywin Lannister, the Red Viper was wondering if it was filled with coded plans to assassinate his sister's family and marry Joanna Lannister to Aegon or Viserys. When Stannis Baratheon ground his teeth particularly hard at council, Oberyn wondered if the man was getting impatient about putting one of the Baratheons on the throne rather than Renly's flamboyant foolishness.

"Seven Hells!" Rhaegar gritted through clenched teeth, lips pulled back in a constant snarl. Sweat beaded over the Dragon King's pale forehead, and with a frown Oberyn pressed a towel to his goodbrother's weeping skin.

"Ride it through, Rhaegar." The Red Viper ordered absently, furrowing his dark brows as he fell back into his musings. Paranoia and the few obvious hints aside, Oberyn couldn't really point fingers at any one party in particular.

Tywin Lannister, despite his fearsome reputation and utterly amoral hunger for family glory, had given Rhaegar apparently loyal service over the past two decades. There had never been a single whisper of treason.

Robert Baratheon was a whoremonger and a fool. Renly Baratheon was a fairy and a fool. Stannis Baratheon was a bore and a fool. One brother was consumed with thoughts of cunts, another with cocks, and the last with duty. Despite the rebellion and their blood claim, there was no real hunger for plots in their corner.

Who then? The Fat Flower didn't have the brains between his ears to be a serious threat to anyone. Olenna Redwyne had the ability, but what motive did the woman have to begin moving against the throne when Highgarden was isolated and unable to really capitalize on it?

Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark were notoriously consumed with honor. Jaime Lannister was known more for his blade then his brains. Hoster Tully was by all accounts growing more frail and forgetful by the day, and would doubtless be in the ground before year's end.

Pinching his nose in disgust, Oberyn chased all thoughts of plots and plotters away. His mind was only running deeper and deeper into the same circles, and it was all useless. The Red Viper spared another glance at Rhaegar's shivering form and rose to his feet.

White ringmail faintly jingled as Oberyn began to pace,dark eyes flickering as he stared out the window over King's Landing. Only a month remained until Viserys and Valaena publicly bound themselves as husband and wife at the Great Sept of Baelor, and Aegon would have his dual marriage with Rhaenys and Daenerys a week after that.

Already the nobility of the realm were trickling into the Conqueror's city. The Tyrells had shown up half a moon past, and Arianne shortly after that. The Lannister party was half a month out, if ravens were to believed. The Blackfish and Edmure Tully were slowly winding their way traveling through the Crownlands and would be in the city any day. Elbert Arryn was remaining in the Vale for the wedding, though his heir was coming south in the company of his Tully kin. And the Starks and Baratheons would ride for King's Landing once the marriage of the Stark girl and the Baratheon boy was done.

A vicious grin pulled across the Red Viper's handsome face, and with a quiet laugh Oberyn slammed his palms onto the windowsill. So many players, so much power concentrated in one place. It made him nostalgic.

Someone might even die.

* * *

  **Bran**

His father's chair dwarfed him. Resting his heel on his knee, Bran sunk back into the wolf furs and hard wood that had been built for his grandfather Rickard Stark. Maester Luwin perched on a stool at his right hand, whispering to the acting Lord of Winterfell when judgments needed to be made.

It helped the seven year old boy make the right choices - especially when the only family left in Winterfell to him was the increasingly sullen Arya. Mother and Father had gone South with Sansa for her wedding with Joff, Robb having been ordered to come along in search of a betrothal at the wedding of Prince Aegon. Three year old Rickon - still fussy and in need of his mother - was being kept out of sight and quiet no doubt.

And Jon was gone, galloping South in the dark of night with all the gold he and his siblings could scrape together. His bastard brother was full of rage and hurt at having been denied the chance to go to the watch by both their father and Uncle Benjen. Bran and Robb both agreed that it probably had less to do with Jon being too young and green for the Wall and more to do with their father not being ready yet to let the Bastard of Winterfell go.

So they'd concocted a lie. Robb and Bran and Jon and Arya all together, hiding gold and plans until their parents were gone and then telling the servants and Maester Lewin that Jon was being sent to the Wall after all. Their father would be furious when their deception was discovered, and the thought of the Quiet Wolf's anger made Bran shake in his boots. But Jon was a man grown, and it wasn't right for their father to make him stay in Winterfell when he wanted to leave any longer. Nor was it right to continue to hide Jon's mother away from him.

"This is the last petition before we break for the midday meal, Lord Bran." Maester Lewin murmured quietly, hands folded in the grey wool of his sleeves.

Sucking a breath in through his nostrils, Bran ran a tidying hand through his auburn strands before nodding at the guard standing by the huge doors of the Great Hall. Truthfully, Bran hated hearing petitions. People seemed to fight over the silliest things, and it was Robb that had a taste for being a lordling. Bran had only ever wanted to be a knight - something looking further and further away once his lord father had told him he'd hold Moat Cailin once he was of age.

The ancient fortress had decayed into ruin over the thousands of years since it been raised by the First Men, until King Rhaegar had ordered Father to make all efforts to repair it. The work had been going on longer than Bran had been alive, and would take several more years to complete. But once it was done, Father and Mother promised his holding would be the envy of all the North after Winterfell, and that his line would hold the Neck for Robb's line against all invaders South or North.

Worries about his ability to be a great knight aside, he was a little bit pleased by that.

Once Bran was a man and Lord of Moat Cailin, Lyanna Mormont was to be his wife, unless the betrothal fell through.

Bran wasn't sure how he felt about that, just like he wasn't sure how he felt about Rickon's betrothal to a yet unborn daughter of Halys Hornwood. But marriages and bloodlines were the basis of alliances, and so long as he and his trueborn brothers lived, the North would have the friendship of the Vale and the Riverlands. Which meant it was up to Rickon and Bran to strengthen Stark power in the North where Robb would marry even further South and expand their alliances.

A pale man with paler eyes stepped into the Great Hall, and as Bran took in the sight of a pink cloak wrapped around the Lord's thin body, he knew who he was. The acting Lord of Winterfell didn't need Maester Luwin's worried whisper to realize that he was staring down at the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Bolton." Bran greeted in his best Lord's voice, shoving down the fear the began to skitter over his nerves like spiders. "You've traveled far to Winterfell, though I admit that we were not expecting you. What aid can I offer you, my Lord?"

Roose Bolton knelt just a hair to slowly to be respectful, before the thin man rose to his feet and pinned Bran with his awful eyes. "I had hoped to see your father, young Lord Bran. Has he ridden out recently?"

"My lord father has taken a ship to the South in order to attend the wedding of my sister Sansa to our former ward, Joffrey Baratheon. A raven was sent out to the lords of the North informing them of his planned absence moons ago."

Pale wormy lips twitched as the Bolton Lord gave a faint chilling smile. "How unfortunate. The raven must have been lost. This has been a particularly stormy year in my holding."

_Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar._

Bran forced his face into what he hoped was a welcoming grin, but what was more likely a pale grimace. "It is no trouble, my Lord. What had you hoped to speak of with my father? Perhaps I can offer some help."

Bony shoulder shrugged as Roose Bolton gave what seemed to be a contrived sigh before continuing to speak in his soft cold voice. "Sadly young Lord, this matter can only be decided by Lord Stark. I am seeking a bride for my son Ramsey, and I had the thought to ask for the hand of Lady Arya for him. It seemed a matter best discussed in person, so I rode to Winterfell myself."

Cold sweat broke out on the back of Bran's neck at the mere thought of mingling blood with the descendents of the Red Kings through his sister's womb. "I understand, but regretfully I can't help you with this matter. Perhaps send a raven in a few moons to schedule and schedule a meeting with my lord father." Father would no doubt refuse more firmly -heir to the Dreadfort Ramsey may now be, but he was still just a legitimized bastard.

"Of course." Lord Bolton agreed, staring at Bran with expectation. The silence became uncomfortable with the Lord of the Dreadfort clearly expecting the hospitality of Winterfell offered and Bran having no intention of giving it.

Eventually Roose Bolton broke it himself, whispering a chilling goodbye and sweeping out of the Great Hall with the emblem of the tortured Flayed Man on his back.

Bran sagged with relief, waving off Maester Luwin's worried hand on his shoulder. His father needed to return soon. There was no chance that was a last Winterfell would see of Lord Roose, and every Stark for the last thousand years could all agree on one thing.

Never trust a fucking Bolton.

* * *

  **Jon**

Sweat slicked his dark curls to his forehead as Jon crossed into the Reach. Pressing low to his chestnut mare, Jon dug his heels into the horse's sides to urge more speed from her. Ghost loped easily beside him, panting slightly in the heat of the South. Even with the wind in his face, Jon Snow found it nearly unbearable.

The Riverlands had been warm enough. The Westerlands even warmer, and the Reach the warmest yet. Dorne would be even warmer. Not for the first time Jon longed for the crisp cold of the North and the snow of the Wolfswood.

Shielding his eyes from the slanting red light of dusk, Jon thoughtfully chewed the inside of his cheek. It was hard to judge sundown for the northern youth. The further South he traveled, the longer the days seemed to become, and the longer he spent in the saddle.

Goldengrove could be no more than week's travel, if the Westerman he'd spoken to in the last mining village Jon had stopped into was to be believed. Despite the reputation of the people of the Westerlands, Jon had found them far more helpful and far less obsessed with gold than he'd expected. Unlike the Riverlanders, who he'd found to be far less hospitable than he'd been told they would be.

Though perhaps that could be blamed on Jon's bastardry. The way the people in Catelyn Tully's homeland had gone ice cold after hearing he was Jon Snow had shocked him. The hate his father's wife had for bastards was less personal than he'd thought it was. A kindly Septon had explained it to Jon.

All men and women of the Riverlands hated bastards. Apparently, the maesters attributed it to millennia of Ironborn raids and the conquering kings from the Iron Islands. There was no greater shame in the Riverlands than to bear a bastard or be one. The stigma of rape and cuckolding that the Ironborn had given bastards remained three centuries after Aegon the Conqueror burnt Black Harren's line and forced the Ironborn to kneel with dragonfire.

The unfairness of it all stung Jon. Once more, he was being hated and looked at coldly for being a bastard. He'd survived a lifetime in the North with Lady Stark's cold eyes, never knowing the warmth of his mother's arms. Jon had thought he could survive it, because eventually he could join the Watch and man the Wall with black brothers who cared not for birth or status.

Then his father and Uncle Benjen had destroyed his hopes. The way they had united to reject him - calling Jon too young and too green to make oaths or fight for his own honor still burnt deep in his belly. The rejection had hardened him, and forged Jon's half-hearted convictions into steel resolve.

If Jon was not going to be permitted to go to the Wall, then he was going South to find his mother. It hadn't been that hard to find her name - Eddard Stark's journals helped - but both breaking into those forbidden journals and riding south would boil the Quiet Wolf's blood.

Lord Stark might decide to send him off to the Wall after all, and for helping him Robb would be mucking out the stables for the rest of his life. Jon snorted bitterly, pulling his horse to a slower trot as the shadows grew too long to ride safely - he didn't the mare to step in a rabbit hole and break her leg.

Searching the horizon, Jon swiftly found a small copse of trees poking out of the fertile Reach grasslands. The Bastard of Winterfell nudged his steed towards it, Ghost loping at their heels until Jon dismounted and tied the mare to one of the leafy greens for the night.

Only once he'd stopped traveling south for the night did Jon allow a goofy grin to stretch over his lips. "Ashara Dayne." he availed, tasting every syllable and twisting them on his tongue like an utter fool. Then Jon dared to quietly hopefully presume in little more than a whisper.

"Mother."

Blinking the hot sting of salt away, Jon dropped to the soft grass and stretched out. Ghost quickly padded up and flopped down beside him, curling into Jon's side like a giant furry white pillow.

They said there was no shame in being a bastard in Dorne, and for his own greedy sake Jon hoped that was true. He'd gone all his life without a love of his mother, but that hadn't stopped Jon from wanting it. And more than anything, Jon wanted to ride into Starfall and be embraced by his lady mother with love rather than shame.

Jon wanted it more than he wanted to be legitimized as a Stark.

But since she'd given him up to his father and never sent him letters, Jon doubted that would be the case. He dreamt of welcoming arms, a sweet voice, and laughing violet eyes. But reality was more likely to be cool disdain, quiet resentment, and a brood of trueborn Dayne brothers and sisters.  
Which was fine, Jon grit his teeth and as hot tears blurred his vision. Even if his mother rejected him like Lady Catelyn had rejected him, he still had his father - once Lord Stark's anger cooled. He still had Bran and Arya and little Rickon. And he had Robb, his brother who in another life might as well have been his twin.

Robb, who was so guilty after breaking his heart as children by denying his ability to ever be Lord of Winterfell that the redhead had taken to raging at anyone who insulted Jon's bastardry. Robb, who had once lied to their father and pretended to be sweet on Alys Karstark, so that Jon and Alys could kiss in the Godswood as foolish children do without earning the ire of Lord Karstark. Robb, who had shared every lesson and been there for every bruise. Robb, who had given Jon his own horse and the gold he'd been saving since childhood so Jon could ride south and find his mother.

Jon wanted his mother. He even vaguely wanted more siblings. But he didn't need them, so long as he had his father and brother.

* * *

  **Aegon**

"With this kiss I pledge my love."

Smiling politely, Aegon clapped along with the crowd as his kinsman leaned in and pressed his lips to Sansa Stark's. A raucous cheer echoed off the walls of the sept, which only intensified as the bride broke away from her new husband with a demure blush.

The Targaryen prince winked at his bored sister, clapping until the skin of his palms went numb and the newlyweds proceeded out of the sept. It was a handsome ceremony, Aegon had to admit.

Both bride and groom were beautiful, and their clothes only accentuated that. Fine blue silk brought out Sansa Stark's Tully blue eyes, and the mingled gold and black made Joffrey Baratheon look strong and virile. Surrounded by the fine-wrought finery of Storm's End's sept, the marriage was like one out of a maiden's fantasy.

It made the heir to the Iron Throne dread how utterly pompous his own marriage ceremony would be.

Rhaenys took his arm and near dragged Aegon along, moving with the flow of the crowd as the guests and families of the bride and groom trickled from the sept to the feasting hall. Fine Myrish hunting tapestries decorated the walls of the enormous room as they spilled into the hall, broken here and there by older tapestries depicting war, Aegon's conquest, and the ancient tale of Durran Godsgrief.

Servants directed various lords to their seats and the high table or one of the lower tables. Aegon and his sister were shown seats are Robert Baratheon's left hand, being greeted absently by the boisterous lord before he turned back to conversing eagerly with Lord Stark.

Smirking to himself as Rhaenys grew visibly more impatient, Aegon slouched back in his seat and gave his sister an indolent look. "This is truly marvelous, is it not?" he simpered, teasing the hot-blooded young woman.

Rhaenys had no patience for softness. Though she could be arrogant and stand on airs for her own glorification, his older sister hated having to act like a genteel lady for the benefit of the various lords of the realm. A true Visenya.  
"My friends!" Robert boomed gaily, bringing the dull roar of chatter to a standstill. The Lord of Storm's end rose to his feet, goblet of wine in hand. "Like me, I'm sure all of you grew up with maesters and septas lecturing you on the need for good manners. So let me say what I'm sure we've all been thinking at one point or another: bugger that!"

The Stormlords burst in chuckles, though the odd guest here and there looked appalled at the Baratheon's crass informality.

"Thank you for coming to celebrate the wedding of my bonny lad Joffrey and the beautiful Sansa Stark! Now dig in, drink deep, and don't be afraid to get your cocks wet!"

"Short and clumsy." Rhaenys murmured over the lip of her wine goblet. "Do you think he performs similarly in the bedroom?"

Turning his head to stare at her, Robert cocked a mocking eyebrow. "I think you might be confusing me for your brother here."

"Are you sure you're not projecting your own insecurities?" Aegon complained to them both, patting Rhaenys' head to chase away her expression of shock. Evidently, she hadn't expected to be heard over the sounds of the feast. "Time for a dance, don't you think sister?"

Taking his sputtering sibling by the hand, Aegon led her down to the open floor where the younger couples had just begun to step to the lively music. Led into a thumping Stormlander dance by the newlyweds, the royals began to move.

Aegon tore his eyes away from his slowly brightening betrothed - Rhaenys always enjoyed a good party once the formality was over and wine began to flow - searching for familiar faces in the crowd as his body began to stomp and clap to the rhythm.

There was the bride's family and the groom's family of course. Lord and Lady Stark remained at the High table, clad in matching white and grey wool ensembles. Robert and Stannis Baratheon similarly matched in fine black and cloth of gold silks, though the younger brother could be seen visibly grinding his teeth away. Cersei Baratheon still dressed like a Lannister, lounging in a sheer red grown that plunged scandalously between her breasts.

The typical clustering of Stormlands bannermen could be found easily as well. Beric Dondarrion danced with his Dayne bride. The greying Lord Gulian Swann was chugging down the Dornish sour that had been brought up for the wedding. The Estermonts - cousins to the reigning Lord through his mother - verily cluttered the place up.

Houses from further afield could be identified by the emblems sewn onto their doublets or cloaks. The money-grubbing Arryns of Gulltown. More spawn of the Late Lord Frey. Some Velayron cousins to his soon-to-be Aunt Valaena.

There was even a tiny Reachman contingent, with a single Tyrell knight and Lord Tarly of the Horn Hill lurking in the background like thieves. How very bold considering few Reach Lords had dared to venture out of the Reach itself for the past decade on threat of the Fat Flower's displeasure.

And of course, Lannisters. Old Tywin had damn near flooded the place with gold-haired distant cousins to the groom. Lannisters of the Rock. Lannisters of Lannisport. Lannister fops he knew well from his youth in the capital. Lannister Lords and Lannister Knights and Lannister Ladies.

The Imp was conspicuous by his absence.

Dark hair and the glitter of violent eyes drew Aegon's gaze in shocked recognition. The lady gave him a mocking wink and held a finger over her lip in a teasing gesture of silence before drawing up her septa's hood.

Drawing Rhaenys closer than was strictly proper, the prince lowered his mouth to his sister's ear. "Take a look over in the corner, dear sister."

Poisonous violet eyes blinked at him before Rhaenys shrugged and peeked over his shoulder. "Huh. Well would you look at that. 'Septa Lemore'. Wonder what she's up to?"

"I wonder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History of the North - this got some play in the side of Bran and Jon's scenes. I feel like an essential part of making Westeros feel appropriately big and multicultural should include fleshing out the backstory of different regions. GRRM did some of that for us, but has left a lot to conjecture. So I'm trying to fill that space up and make it have impact on the characters. Hence, "never trust a fucking Bolton". Conflicts and friendships between Houses are inevitable when your Houses go back thousands of years.
> 
> Moat Cailin - has no given lord in canon. Which makes sense since it's just three moldy run-down watchtowers. I know it seems far from Winterfell to not have a lord of its own, but given the history and condition of Moat Cailin this is really the only conclusion I can draw. It was won from the Marsh Kings when the Kings of Winter made them kneel, and as far as I'm concerned marks the southern boundary of lands held directly by Winterfell.
> 
> This might need some clarification, since there's Castle Cerwyn right next door. The Seven Kingdoms is a feudal setup. Which means there are Kings, Lords directly under the Kings, Lords under those Lords, possibly Lords under those Lords, possibly Lords under those Lords, and so on. In the real world, we differentiate these Lords by title which is very convenient. But GRRM didn't feel like making things easy for readers, so we're left with everyone being called "Lord" except the King and we must puzzle out relationships ourselves.
> 
> As far as I'm concerned, in the real world Winterfell would be called a Duchy. So there would be the Duke of Winterfell. Duke of Karhold. Duke of the Dreadfort. Duke of Last Hearth. All of these "duchies" are under the King in the North, and later Lord Paramountcy of the North. These "duchies" evolved out of former kingdoms, and their borders are often defined by the history of war between those kingdoms. Which means although the "Duchy of the Hornwood" might be equal in rank theoretically to the "Duchy of Winterfell", in practice the domain of the Lord of Winterfell is four and five times the size of other domains of equal rank.
> 
> What makes Winterfell special is not it being Winterfell, but that it's the seat of the Lord Paramount of the North. Theoretically, it's equal in rank to the Lordship of the Dreadfort and if the King decided to make the Boltons the Lords Paramount without changing land borders, you'd have the odd situation of a bannerman more powerful, richer, and with more land than his overlord.
> 
> This separation of Lord Paramountcy from Lordship of Winterfell means legally speaking that when a House goes extinct with no heirs it defaults back to being governed by the Lord Paramount (and before that the King in the North) separately from their personal demesne. So Eddard Stark governs not only Winterfell and its lands, but those lands held by the Lord Paramount. I'm tempted to make a map so I can put different Houses in different places. But that's academic and getting off point.
> 
> Lordship of Moat Cailin can be really considered in the feudal context to be equal to a Barony or at most a County, and marks the current southern boundary of lands held by the "Duchy" of Winterfell. Castle Cerwyn is at most a barony, though given proximity to Winterfell is probably much smaller than that. A baronetcy or an even smaller fief. I can really only picture it as a single keep or tower, and it likely has origins in being built for a minor Stark child very early on in their conquests, when they were petty kings competing with other petty kings within a small region.
> 
> Robb Pairing - originally, I'd planned to ship him off with Margaery. But DizzyDG has given me a taste for RobbxFemOCLannister and a Robb-Jaime friendship, so I'm not sure anymore. Let me know what y'all think.


End file.
